Blood Magic
by CaptainReina
Summary: Anders nearly killed a girl. Anders starts acting suspicious. Fenris suspects blood magic. Fenris is wrong. Graphic self harm.
1. Chapter 1

"Anders, that girl is a mage, we saved her from becoming Tranquil!"

 _"She is theirs! I can feel their hold on her!"_

"She's the reason you're fighting, Anders. Don't turn on her now."

"Please, messere . . . "

.

"We're just a monster. Same as any other abomination."

.-.-.-.-.

Anders had been quiet.

Not that Fenris exactly minded at first. The apostate was absolutely insufferable, making Fenris want to punch him every time he opened his damned mouth and spewed some pro-mage propaganda - and of course he couldn't help himself when the man was always baiting him, always luring him into snapping and getting into long arguments. Hawke always found it amusing, if a little ridiculous, when they went on like that. They all ended the same; one or both would simply give up, tired of the circles, and refuse to even acknowledge the other existed for several hours.

It was childish. Fenris hated it. It was _stupid._ And yet, standing here in slightly-too-warm Kirkwall in a fancy building with a disheartening lack of cool air, waiting for Hawke to finish inside the Viscount's office after at least an hour of talking and blatantly ignoring Merrill's cheerful humming and idle babbling to herself, Fenris found he would have welcomed the banter, no matter how angry it usually made him. Anything but this horribly awkward quiet, guards staring as they passed, Merrill occasionally stopping a guard to ask the time until Fenris had memorized the dialogue by heart.

 _Excuse me, serah! What time is it?_ Insert time here. _Thank you! Have a lovely afternoon!_ Every. Time. Normal, right? Yet mind-numbing when he heard it every half hour, nearly on the dot.

He hated Anders, but he hated this atmosphere so much more.

The mage in question was shifting from foot to foot, getting understandably antsy after they had been waiting so long, but Fenris leapt on the opportunity like a parched man that had come across an oasis. "Worried the guards will recognize you and call the templars, mage?"

I have a name! Mind your own business! I'd like to see them try! Any of those heated retorts would have worked. Maker, _anything,_ or Fenris was going to lose his damn mind. But Anders only glanced his way, eyes narrowing with mild contempt, before his gaze slid back over to the window.

"I suppose they might," he said simply, and Fenris nearly forgot not to stare in astonishment.

What the hell was that? Where was the anger? Where was the attitude? Where was Justice's rage, tearing him a new asshole? What had happened to the Anders he knew, who would take any bait at the drop of a hat? Who would spend hours fussing and whining to anyone who would listen and fight Fenris for an eternity over their opposing views?

"Until next time, Marlowe!"

Hawke's chipper voice, the way she showed such thinly veiled casual disrespect, the distasteful murmurs that followed - all beautifully welcoming sounds to Fenris's ears. Hawke came into view from Viscount Dumar's office, whistling an upbeat tune and heading for the stairs, and the rest of the party needed no verbal cue to follow her down. They hit up Aveline in her quarters, Hawke having much too long a discussion with her as well, before they finally left.

On second thought, Fenris would have been honored to continue standing outside the Viscount's office for another several hours. Or several days. Or really, the rest of the summer, because summer in Kirkwall was _miserable._ The bad weather had caught on quickly and sporadically, fooling Fenris every few days with a disorientingly lovely forecast, and then coming back the next with heat that made him sweat like he never had before. The stone of Hightown absorbed heat and radiated it like some kind of giant oven.

"Goodness," Merrill panted next to him. "It was so deceptively cloudy this morning! I wish I had put on my sleeveless tunic. I'm absolutely melting!" A pause. "Oh, what a horrid thought. I don't imagine people melting is much of a pleasant sight."

"It never got this hot in Ferelden," Hawke grumbled. "Maker, I'm sweating buckets!"

Fenris expected Anders to say something as well, at least adding to Hawke's complaint as he was also from Ferelden, but the mage remained silent.

They made their way down the stairs and through the streets of Hightown. Merchants were notably less boisterous in the heat, and the market had gone from a buzzing hive of activity to a desolate wasteland. Hawke stopped by a few stalls before they headed towards Lowtown. Merrill and Hawke chattered brightly, and Fenris was coaxed out of his staring at Anders to tune into their conversation.

"I just don't know how you do it. They dry up my savings faster than I can say _aneth ara!"_

"You've got to be mean, Merrill! Take what you want and don't take no for an answer."

"Be mean? Oh, Hawke, they're just trying to live."

"And they need every coin in your pocket to survive?"

Merrill sighed wistfully. "You're right. I'm hopeless."

"Maybe not," Hawke said, and stopped so suddenly that Fenris nearly ran into her. Anders, of course, proceeded to run into him, and he offered the apostate a harsh scowl. Anders only responded with a glare. Hawke was quick to interrupt them before things went downhill. "Fenris!"

Surprised at being addressed, Fenris only dumbly responded, "Yes, Hawke?"

Hawke placed one hand on her hip and poked at Fenris's chest plate with the other, a devious smile crossing her face. "You're going to accompany Merrill to the market tomorrow."

 _Thanks for asking,_ Fenris wanted to say, but he bit back the irritated retort. He liked Hawke, however they may disagree, despite how much he did _not_ want to spend any time with that filthy blood mage. Especially not alone. "Pardon?"

"Oh, no! You don't have to!" Merrill scrambled, and Fenris was, for once, welcoming of her opinion. "It's so silly of me. I'll be quite alright, both of you."

"Nonsense!" Hawke declared, straightening up and crossing her arms. "Merrill here is terrible at bartering. You're going to help her."

"I am not the best at bartering, myself," Fenris said honestly, a little baffled. Why did he have to do it? Why not Varric? Isabela? Hawke herself? Come to think of it, weren't rogues the best at that sort of thing? Convenience, probably, he answered himself; Hawke didn't feel like tracking them down, and had her own things to attest to, and turned to Fenris as he was right there. Then again, so was Anders, so why . . . ?

Hawke waved her hand dismissively. "I know you're no haggler," she said, "but you know what you are good at? Looking scary." Fenris stared at her. Hawke clapped her hands in delight. "Good! Just like that!"

Fenris had to say it - this was not clearing things up at all. "I fail to see how that's relevant," he replied slowly. Hawke rolled her eyes.

"Can I make it any more obvious? You're going to go with Merrill here - " At this she threw an arm around the Dalish elf's shoulders, " - to the market, and she's going to try for some sweet bargains. And if anyone tells her no, you're going to mean mug them until they say yes, or piss their pants. Whichever comes first. With you staring them down, it's sort of a gamble."

"That sounds mean," Merrill piped up, sounding guilty. Hawke waggled a finger in her face.

"What's mean is their price gouging!"

He supposed there was no helping it. Fenris would have to comply, or Hawke would talk them in circles until he inevitably said yes. She had a funny way of doing that, of convincing anyone to do just about anything, whether it was the lowest street urchin, the highest ranking noble, or Varric, the master of manipulation himself. Usually, Fenris admired it, and on occasion even found it amusing. Today, he loathed it.

"I will do it," he relented, and as Hawke looked on smugly and Merrill thanked him profusely, he mentally prepared himself for something horribly wrong to happen the next day. Traveling alone with a blood mage? Nothing good could come of it.

"Good luck with that one," Anders muttered, a startling lack of any real emotion behind it. Fenris whipped his head around, wanting to give some snarky response, but he was too surprised at him finally opening his mouth to come up with anything clever.

"So nice of you to finally join us, Anders," Hawke said cheerfully, but he only shrugged in response.

They made their way into Darktown, and despite all the filth about, Fenris relished in how much cooler the air was.

.-.-.-.-.

It was hot once more in Kirkwall. The stones burned Fenris's feet, perhaps not as badly as a human's, but still remarkably considering the resistance he had built up. If it got much worse, he might have to start wearing his boots. He hated wearing his boots. Thankfully, it was not nearly as hot as Tevinter got sometimes, so he did not think he would have to wear them anytime soon.

He made his way out of his little corner of Hightown, down to the market, and into Lowtown. The small market there was a tad livelier than the one in Hightown, as it was a little cooler here, the location providing more shade and cooling the stones. A few residents gave brief, polite greetings as they went on their way, and he always responded with a silent nod, unsure what to say. That place might have been considered the slums, but the residents were far friendlier than any of the higher class citizens.

The Alienage was not far, and greetings rang out from all over, friendly faces recognizing him as one of Merrill's friends. Fenris did not have the heart to tell them he wanted nothing to do with her. He made his way to her home.

When knocking heralded nothing, he hesitantly opened the door and allowed himself inside. The place was small, a dirty little hovel, but Merrill was doing her best to make it seem lively. Despite the squeaking of mice in the background, he could admire her other efforts - the paintings she had purchased to place on the walls, the nicer furniture she had finally invested in, the small bookcase in the corner. Some part of it elicited an odd sort of embarrassment in Fenris; maybe it was time for him to renovate, too.

Voices from the bedroom had Fenris tensing. Had he walked in on something private? He moved back to the door, trying to exit as quietly as possible so nobody would know his shame, but his ears caught the words and he froze in place.

"I'm so excited!" Merrill was saying. "Let's see . . . no, no good. Here, how about this one? It's very sharp. You can hardly feel it!"

"It's familiar," came Anders's voice. Anders?

"Oh, yes, it would be, it's my favorite. I use it all the time!"

"If it's your favorite, I couldn't . . . "

"Don't be ridiculous," Merrill told him, and there was the sound of a blade being removed from a sheath.

"Sharper than Hawke's tongue," Anders said. Merrill burst into a sweet little chortle. "Are you sure about giving this one to me? Any will do."

"It's nothing! I can always get another. I'm just so excited you're finally seeing things my way!"

Knives. Fenris's hands closed into fists, the tips of his clawed gauntlets digging into his palms. It was plain as day what they were talking about. He should have known! Of all the preaching Anders did, despite all the times he scolded Merrill and implored to Fenris, all the times he preached against blood magic, here he was, borrowing knives from the blood mage herself. For what? Cutting cheese? No, Fenris knew exactly what this was about.

He had to tell Hawke.

Just as he was reaching for the door handle, Anders and Merrill came out of the room. They all stopped and stared at one another, tension crackling in the air. A small, sheathed knife with an ornate handle was tucked into his belt, and Fenris's eyes narrowed dangerously at the sight. Anders himself looked like a deer in headlights, scratching at the back of his neck self consciously and avoiding eye contact.

"Fenris!" Merrill finally spoke up, her voice chipper as ever, though she fidgeted as she spoke. "How long have you been here? I didn't mean to keep you waiting, I'm so sorry!"

Fenris swallowed thickly. This could be dangerous territory. He had seen what Merrill could do in the field. If there were two of them . . .

"I just arrived," he said, moving away from the door. "It is no trouble." Anders seemed to immediately relax, walking towards the exit.

"I was just leaving," Anders said, raising a hand in farewell. As he opened through the door, he addressed the other mage in the house. "Thanks for everything, Merrill. I appreciate it."

"No problem! Tell me how it - " The door swung shut behind him, and Merrill faltered, looking disappointed. " - goes."

They stood there in silence, neither talking, staring, calculating. If anything, this extended exchange confirmed what they both knew: that Fenris had been standing there quite a while, and that he knew Merrill and Anders were doing more than simply catching up. Finally, Merrill shook her head, grabbed her staff from her room, and slung it over her back, then grabbed a bag of coins off the table. She smiled innocently at Fenris.

"Shall we be off? I've got a lot of learning to do today!" She was chipper, eyes gone from inquisitive and suspicious to bright and cheerful once more.

It was then that Fenris noticed the lack of chainmail and scarf, and he took in the short sleeved tunic and light leggings she had swapped it for, as well as the black little sandals she swapped to. He was vaguely jealous. He should have thought to dress lighter in this heat, though he did not really own much. He was going to suffer horribly during their little adventure.

There were more pressing matters. When Merrill placed her hand on the door knob, Fenris darted forward and grasped her wrist, effectively stopping her from moving. A startled little gasp left her lips as Fenris hovered over her, intimidatingly close, his markings faintly glowing a light blue.

"What were you two doing?"

Merrill's eyes went impossibly wide, a little terrified, and then narrowed. In an astonishingly brave display for the usually shy little elf, she jerked her hand away and opened the door, then placing her hands on her hips and glaring down Fenris. It was the first time he had seen her anything akin to mad and he was more shocked than angry that she resisted him.

"It's none of your business, Fenris," she said flatly, scolding him like a mother would a nosy child. "And quite frankly, it's not mine, either, so I'm not going to gossip behind his back."

"Mage - "

"We have shopping to do!" And suddenly she was back to her merry self, taking hold of Fenris's hand and dragging him out the door with surprising strength. "Come on, messere Grumpy Pants. You've got merchants to scowl at."

The threat had passed. He would have to tell Hawke later.


	2. Chapter 2

**hi everyone it's been a really busy and hard time lately so sorry for the delay**

.-.-.-.-.

It was dark in Hightown when Fenris ventured out from his mansion, his broadsword a heavy but comforting weight on his back. The roads should have been safe, considering Hawke had recently cleared out the bandits that prowled the streets at night. Still, where one group of thugs fell, another would rise, and Fenris was not going to be taken by surprise.

Lanterns dimly lit the path to Hawke's estate, not too far from his own home. The night was pleasantly quiet and surprisingly cool compared to the daytime. It was still far too warm for his tastes, but his feet were thankful of the lower temperature.

Fenris passed the long staircase to the chantry and stopped in front of Hawke's door, knocking firmly with his fist rather than the knocker, and stepped back to wait. Bodahn was quick to answer. He looked rather tired, and for a second Fenris felt guilty for coming at such an hour. He pushed it away in a heartbeat; this was important.

"Ah, good evening, serah," the dwarf greeted, allowing Fenris in and directing him to an armchair in the front room. "Messere Hawke was just getting ready for bed for the night. Shall I call her down?"

Fenris opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a voice from the top of the stairs. "He can join me in my study, Bodahn."

There she was, leaning on the railing with wet hair and a fluffy gray bathrobe. Bodahn gave a hasty little bow and a quick "of course, messere" before pushing Fenris toward the stairs. The elf made his way up to where Hawke stood and offered her a nod in greeting. She rolled her eyes and shoved at his shoulder playfully.

"Is that all you greet a lady with?" Hawke scolded, though without any real venom. She glanced back down at her dwarven servant. "Some wine, please, Bodahn. Surprise me. You can call it a night after that."

"Yes, messere," Bodahn replied with another bow, and wandered out of sight. Hawke turned her attention back to Fenris. He reached out and tugged at the sleeve of her robe, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Is this what you buy with all that money?" he asked, only a hint of irony in his tone. She snatched her arm away and swatted lightly at his wrist, matching his smile with a grin.

"I've run out of luxuries to splurge on," Hawke said airily. The two of them wandered past the small library to her study. "When you're busy dealing with everyone and their mother's problems, you end up with more money than you know what to do with. You should know that."

"I buy only the necessities," Fenris replied. He watched Hawke plop down into her desk chair with a sigh and cross her legs. She shot him a look that was partly amused, a little irritated.

"Fixing that run-down hovel of yours isn't a necessity?" she probed, and he crossed his arms.

"It is a roof over my head," he said somewhat defensively, leaning against the wall opposite her.

Hawke narrowed her eyes. It was an argument they had often; she regularly insisted that he should invest in fixing up his mansion, while Fenris argued that it was best to save for more important instances. Before they could get into it again, however, Bodahn arrived with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Hawke let out a weary sigh and thanked him, uncorking the bottle and pouring a glass for her guest.

"9:12," she read from the bottle before handing the glass over. "Should be good."

"Thank you," was all he said.

They both went quiet, Hawke pouring her own glass and swirling the contents. Fenris took a sip, and then another, downing his glass rather quickly. He supposed there should be some shame at his alcoholism but could not really bring himself to care. Instead, he helped himself to another glass, and Hawke chugged half of hers before speaking again.

"I think I'm drunk enough to deal with you now," she joked, looking up at Fenris over the rim of her glass. "What did you come here for, Fenris? Surely not just for regular middle-of-the-night gossip."

There was a drop in atmosphere at her question. Fenris took a particularly large gulp of wine, taking his time before answering. When he spoke it was with the slow hesitation of a man carefully choosing his words, and Hawke listened closely, attentively, in a way few others cared to for an elf.

"Anders was visiting Merrill," Fenris said quietly. Hawke's eyes narrowed, and she took another sip before responding.

"He has been acting strange lately, hasn't he?"

Fenris had no real response to that one. He always thought the mage acted strangely. "They were discussing blades. Merrill gifted him one. She refused to tell me what they were for."

Hawke stared at her wine in contemplation before sighing and drinking the rest. "That is rather self-explanatory, isn't it? Though . . . "

Fenris did not like the way she said that. "Though?" he repeated slowly.

"Don't you think we would have noticed something by now?" Hawke helped herself to more wine. "Stories of demons running amok in Darktown? Weird fleshy growth all over our favorite mage's body? I don't know, Fenris. Maybe it's nothing."

He could not believe his ears. Nothing? _Nothing?_

"An abomination and a blood mage," he ground out, "and you think it's nothing?"

"I'll keep an eye on him," Hawke said before Fenris could get angry, waving her hand at him dismissively. "Don't expect anything big, though. I'm not so certain it's important."

Fenris scoffed, setting a half-finished goblet of wine on the desk and turning his back on Hawke. "I'll see myself out."

"Fenris," Hawke said sharply when he was halfway out of the room. He turned to look at her, and ice blue eyes met his own, narrowing in something like a warning.

"What?" he snapped, a little harsher than was warranted. Hawke didn't break eye contact.

"Don't do anything stupid."

.-.-.-.-.

Sweat rolled down the back of Fenris's neck, which he was sure he would later find sunburnt from the scorching rays the sun beat upon their merry band. The sun scalded their backs as Hawke led her companions along the Wounded Coast. Fenris had not only ditched his armor, but abandoned his leather feathers and wore his gauntlets on their own, as well as traded his undershirt for a sleeveless one. Merrill was clad in a sleeveless tunic and had gone without pretty much all of her armor, Hawke in a similar situation.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

And then there was Anders. Despite the sweltering heat, he had done naught but removed his bulky coat, leaving his noticeably thin frame wrapped in a thick, long-sleeved gown. Merrill was pestering him, leaning close with her eyes sparkling excitedly.

"Is everything going okay?"

"Oh . . . that. It's going fine. Thank you, Merrill."

"It's no problem! I'm excited to see!"

"I think I won't show it off just yet."

He seemed noticeably exhausted, face long and bags under his eyes deep. Fenris could see the suspicion on Hawke's face at his choice of clothing - though she could not hear the whispers like Fenris could - and it left him feeling strangely victorious. Merrill walked beside Fenris now, avoiding eye contact, knowing he could hear.

"Bit hot out here, isn't it, Anders?" she piped up into the muted silence that had fallen over the party. An arm went around the mage's shoulders, and Fenris was surprised to see him flinch a little. Evidence of his betrayal, he supposed.

"Sweltering," Anders responded, tone controlled. Hawke made a sympathetic noise, and leaned in close to murmur in Anders's ear. She wasn't that good at whispering; Fenris's (or Merrill's, if she was interested) ears were more than sensitive enough to pick up her words.

"Little warm for wool, hm? Bet you can't wait to get out of that."

Anders made a face, and Fenris nearly groaned at Hawke's bad flirting. Could it even be called that?

"The sooner we get the job done, the sooner I can do exactly that," Anders replied, now looking uncomfortable. Hawke let out a little huff of air before trying again.

"You should do it in my bedroom," Hawke said bluntly.

Merrill let out a surprised little _oh!_ from beside Fenris, revealing that she had also been eavesdropping - it was hard not to, for them. Fenris heard Anders exhale sharply, almost wearily, and tried hard not to snort at the mage's attempt to still sound friendly as he turned her down.

"I think I would prefer to get back to the clinic as soon as possible," he said politely, and before Hawke could say anything fell back to walk behind the elves. Hawke's face was similar to that of someone who had bitten into something particularly sour, and at that Fenris did snort.

"Well, you can't win them all," she muttered, falling in line with Fenris. He fought very hard not to roll his eyes.

Merrill had lagged back to talk to Anders, probably to console him after that embarrassing display, judging by the hand on his shoulder. Fenris was surprised to see Anders willing to let her touch him, but reminded himself that they were now partners in crime. He lowered his tone and hoped Merrill did not feel the need to listen in with her more sensitive ears.

"A suspected blood mage, and this is your way of investigating?" He did not know whether to be disgusted or amused. "You thought you would . . . what? Invite him to your chambers and hope he turned into an abomination?"

Hawke huffed, swatting at Fenris's bicep in protest. "Usually he flirts back," she said defensively. Then she sighed. "He is a little off. Very unenthusiastic, isn't he?"

"You could have just yelled out, 'look, templars!' to test that," Fenris said dryly. Hawke made a noise of embarrassment and shoved at his shoulder. The tiny rogue really did not have nearly enough strength to make him budge, but, deciding he had given her enough of a hard time, Fenris staggered just a little to make her feel better.

"I don't know, Fenris," she said, sobering up once more. At that, the elf could feel himself bristle. He did not like her tone.

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully, fearing the answer. She did not believe him, did she? There was irrefutable proof at this point, Fenris was sure of it, and yet she doubted him?

Hawke opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by two yelps in unison from the mages behind them.

An arrow whizzed right past Fenris's head, a shout from Hawke in warning being the only thing that prevented it from impacting. His broadsword was out in an instant, and he could already spot the bandits in the brush to their left. Their cover blown, they charged out from the foliage, and Fenris met two with his sword.

With a single fatal strike, one bandit was cleaved in half, blood splattering everywhere and dousing his blade, while the other gave a weak parry and was knocked to the dirt. Hawke finished him off with a stomp to the head as she passed Fenris, blades slashing so quickly they were a blur as she knocked a bandit towards the cliff.

A glance back revealed Merrill a fair distance from the fight, hurling spells, and Anders - where was Anders? Fenris scanned the area, and the distraction nearly got him a knife in the back. When he had dispatched the rogue, however, he spotted the abomination.

Anders was _far_ too close to their enemies, hurling fireballs at every foe that so much as glanced his way. It was effective, of course; the fire spread from bandit to bandit, and soon their screams halted and there was nothing left but husks of men.

Breathing hard, Anders replaced his staff on his back and straightened up. Fenris joined the others in approaching him. Hawke gave a little laugh, short and nervous as she sheathed her swords. Fenris and Merrill followed suit with their weapons as they all stood around and waited for someone to speak.

That someone was, of course, Hawke. "Not your usual style, is it, Anders?"

The man offered a vague shrug, looking uncomfortable - likely from all the eyes on him. "I got tired of just being the healer, I guess," he said, glancing away.

Hawke exchanged a glance with Fenris, and he knew what she was thinking. He knew and it infuriated him. Anders had not used anything even remotely similar to blood magic during that fight. Fenris's skin prickled uncomfortably, like he was being watched. He knew what he had seen and heard, regardless of what Hawke thought, and he would prove it to her sooner or later.

He glanced up to snap at whoever was staring, but found nobody looking at him. The rest of the party were continuing along the coast without him. The prickling intensified, and there was a sudden urgency, a need to catch up. His legs carried him across the sand and rocks, and Hawke looked back, lips curled up in a smile as if to taunt him for lagging behind.

He was just in time. A glint of silver, a stinging pain. Fenris jerked Anders out of the way with a vice grip on his upper arm and took the hit to his shoulder. The last of the bandits died with shock still written all over her face as Fenris tore out her heart.

Merrill let out a little gasp of surprise, and Hawke released a low whistle. "Nice one, Fen," she praised him.

And that was that. The party continued, and Fenris downed a potion, preferring it over letting Anders get his magic anywhere near his body. He looked down at his bloodied gauntlet in disgust and started to wipe it on his leggings before freezing suddenly in the act. That was not the hand he had killed the bandit with. That one was much bloodier. This . . .

Fenris turned to glance at Anders and, with a sort of grim feeling of satisfaction, found the forest green wool was stained crimson.

"Mage," he called out, and Anders gave him a weary look, Merrill also glancing back briefly in case Fenris was addressing her. "Were you injured?"

Anders's eyes narrowed and his jaw set. Automatically, his hand went to his upper arm where the blood was. There was a small, almost imperceptible wince, and then his expression faded into something more casual.

"It's those damn claws of yours," the healer complained loudly. "Sliced me right open. Honestly, Fenris, you may as well just leave me to die next time."

Hawke let out a snort ahead of them, and Merrill covered her mouth against a chortle.


	3. Chapter 3

**idk if i like this chapter, but it's long!**

.-.-.-.-.

Hawke let out a long, exaggerated yawn, stretching her arms high above her head and letting them drop back to her sides with a dramatic sigh.

"Aveline owes me way more than one," she complained loudly as they walked down the steps of the Qunari compound. "'Just see what they want,' 'they like you,' _u_ _gh!_ I should have made her deal with this!"

Fenris was inclined to agree. Covered in dirt, sticky with sweat, and stained with more than a little blood, he felt absolutely disgusting. The sun was setting on the docks, which allowed the air to cool, thankfully, but it was too late to curb his discomfort. He wished he could have stayed home all day, but Hawke always brought him along to earn brownie points from the Arishok. Fenris wanted to scoff at that. Just because he knew a few greetings in Qunlat, he got to suffer with her.

Of course, he held no real animosity towards her. He would follow Hawke through the Void and back. She had done more for him than he could ever repay her for.

"Poison," Hawke continued in her rant. "Their solution to preventing their explosives recipe being stolen was to replace it with _poison!_ Absolutely genius, let everyone die of some horrible poison instead of, Andraste forbid, someone learning how to mix some _fucking powder - "_

"We get it, Hawke," Isabela interrupted in a lazy drawl, throwing an arm over the woman's shoulders. "Qunari this, Qunari that, Aveline is going to get it. If I hear you complain about that blackpowder stuff one more time, I'm going to vomit."

"Easy for you to say!" Hawke shoved away from the embrace lightly, crossing her arms and pouting. "Always slipping away at the last second. You've never had to listen to the Arishok drone on and on, or try to convert you every other sentence!"

Isabela rolled her eyes playfully and clicked her tongue. It was her way of acting as though she was above the argument. It stemmed from avoidance issues, Fenris noted, but he never opted to comment on it. She would just avoid that discussion, like everything else.

"It's okay, Isabela," Merrill said sweetly, patting the pirate on the arm empathetically. "I'm scared of the Qunari, too. They're just so big, they could squash me with one hand!"

Isabela's cheeks flamed bright red, a feat considering her dark skin. Her hands went haughtily to her hips. "I am _not_ afraid of some horny giants," she insisted, and even at their distance Fenris caught the way her voice faltered mid-joke. Sympathetic, nobody second-guessed her on the statement.

In the silence that followed, Fenris overheard Hawke very quietly fume, "How secret can a bomb recipe even be?"

The sky was a stunning orange when they made their way into the slowly emptying streets of Lowtown, Hawke leading them in a beeline to the Hanged Man. It was routine for her to buy a pint for anyone she had dragged along with her for the day, and Fenris was the last person to turn down alcohol, even if it was the shittiest of dwarven ales. Thankfully, Hawke had better taste than that.

The Hanged Man was comfortably familiar in all its filthy glory. Norah gave her regular patrons a friendly wave, and the party made their way to the bar, Fenris propping his broadsword against the side of it. Fenris glanced around, nearly every face familiar, whether friendly or unfriendly. Expectedly, he found Varric standing nearby, but surprisingly the storytelling dwarf had not yet joined them.

Instead, he was speaking with a very familiar mage.

" - keep them away for the night? I haven't gotten decent shut-eye in weeks, they're always rattling around and asking questions at the most ridiculous hours. I can pay you back, of course."

"No need, blondie," came that smooth voice, and he clapped Anders on the elbow, too short to reach his shoulder. "I'll tell the carta to keep your doorstep clear."

"Thanks, Varric," the mage replied gratefully. Anders looked dead exhausted, dark circles under his eyes more prominent than ever before and face pale. In an instant, Fenris remembered the blood on his hands and on the man's sleeve, the defensive way he had covered it, the deflection when interrogated. He had not seen Anders since then, which had been a week before now.

Hawke elbowed Fenris, her preferred method of getting his attention. "You drinking up or nah?" she asked, complaint in her tone as there always was when Fenris was not listening to her. She followed his gaze, spotting Anders, and frowned. "Ah," was all she said after that.

Fenris looked back at Anders at the same moment the mage turned his head, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments. The amiable smile immediately slipped off his face and he narrowed his eyes, quickly bidding Varric farewell and heading for the door of the pub. With a baffled expression, Varric watched him go, and then wandered over to the bar.

"Poor guy oughta stop in for a drink once in a while," he said, shaking his head and hopping onto one of the barstools. Like this, he was the same height as the others. "It'd do him a world of good."

"Hello to you too, Varric," Hawke greeted, falling back into her amused banter, as though nothing had happened. Fenris stared at the door as it swung shut behind Anders, eyebrows drawn together.

"Hello, Varric!" Merrill piped up from the other side of Hawke. Varric offered her a smile, something akin to fondness in it. If Fenris left now, he could follow after the abomination, and maybe find out his secret.

"Evening," he said, tapping the bar counter for a beer. Corff had it in front of him in seconds. "How were today's spoils, Hawke?"

Before Hawke could launch into her grand retelling about their grueling day once again, Fenris slid off his barstool and secured his broadsword onto his back. The action was met with two surprised looks and two knowing ones.

"I'm going to call it a night, actually," he heard himself saying, and it took every fibre of his being not to sprint out right then and there.

"What, already?" Isabela complained. "Skimping out on free beer? That's unlike you, Fenris."

"I feel disgusting," Fenris replied, and it was true. He was still covered in grime. It just was not his first priority. Merrill gave a little sniff, narrowing her eyes at Fenris in warning, which he opted to ignore. He did not care what the blood mage thought.

"Good night, then, I suppose," Hawke said airily, but the look she gave him was pointed. He had known Hawke long enough and well enough to decipher exactly what she was telling him.

 _Figure this out._

He raised a hand in farewell as he moved towards the door. "Good night."

Fenris was itching to move faster, and the moment the door shut behind him he scanned the area. Anders was already gone, but Fenris knew he was likely returning to his home in Darktown, so he ventured down the nearby steps. His words echoed in Fenris's mind - keeping someone away from the clinic. Templars, obviously. Who else would Anders need protection from? And why else would he want them to gone but to ensure he could practice forbidden magic unhindered?

The street was rapidly darkening, with nary a soul on it besides the two or three beggars making their way back to the Undercity. Fenris bypassed them all. He did not hesitate once down the steps to Darktown, feet light and quick on the stone, then completely muffled when he hit dirt.

Once, lanterns had lit the paths of Darktown, but over the years they had dimmed, winked out completely, or been broken in scuffles or drunken rages. Fenris knew the route by memory, however, needing no guidance as he made a beeline to the clinic. It surprised him at first - the fact that he had yet to see Anders about - but of course, the mage had spells for speed, ones that Fenris himself had felt flowing through his body and enhancing his movement.

There were carta lurking around in the shadows around the clinic, Fenris knew, sharpening their blades and watching for threats. Fenris, however, was not a templar. They let him pass, which he was thankful for, as he did not want to bother with a tussle between himself and a bunch of angry dwarves.

The lantern in front of the clinic was off, signaling that it was closed, though Fenris knew that Anders rarely turned down people that came at off hours. Surprisingly, however, the inside of the clinic was almost entirely empty, with not a soul inside save for a heavily bandaged dwarven woman snoring on a cot.

Ignoring her, Fenris turned to the door that led to Anders's room. He could see a faint light filtering through the gap at the bottom. Listening closely, he heard nothing, but above the stench of Darktown, one thing was very clear.

The air reeked of blood.

He had known it would come to this since the moment he had seen Merrill gifting him that blade - no, since as far back as his first time meeting Anders. Not only a mage, not only an apostate, but an abomination. And what did abominations always become? _Maleficarum._

Fenris's hands grew clammy, his heart racing. Memories of his slavery, of gashes all over his body, of the reek of blood and fear, watching helplessly as a beautiful young elf girl had her throat slit like a pig and was replaced with a being of fire -

With a gutteral snarl that was far from human, Fenris raised his foot and broke down the rotting wooden door with a single heavy kick.

"Fenris?"

Anders stood in front of a mirror, but all Fenris could see was his former master, turning and giving a wicked smirk, beckoning him closer. Lacerations traced their paths up and down the mage's arm. The stench of blood was overwhelming.

 _"Mage!"_ It came out as a mighty roar. Fenris did not bother drawing his sword; with these close quarters and a staffless mage, he could handle himself just fine without.

He did not know when his markings had flared a brilliant blue. He bowled Anders over in an instant onto the floor, the familiar tug of the Fade calling to him, but he ignored it for the moment. He wanted to make the filthy abomination suffer before he ended his miserable life. Instead, his clawed gauntlets closed around Anders's throat.

"Did you think you would not be noticed?!" Fenris hissed, leaning down until they were nose-to-nose. Anders's eyes were wide with fright, and the elf relished in the satisfaction that coursed through his veins. "Did you think you could get away with this?!"

A flash of anger in warm hazel eyes, and then a sharp pain as Anders reared back and headbutted Fenris in the forehead. He took advantage of the resulting shock to roll them over with surprising strength, gripping his wrists forcefully and pinning them.

"Are you barking mad?!" Anders moved to straddle Fenris when he started to thrash. He was _not_ about to let himself be at the mercy of yet another bloodthirsty maleficar! "Stop struggling, you crazy son of a - _agh!"_

Fenris succeeded in reversing the roles once again, and this time Anders's head smacked against the floor with a satisfying _crack._ The mage lay still then, conscious but dazed, and Fenris sat back, panting. Hand glowing bright blue, he pressed his fingertips to Anders's chest, red clouding his vision. His other hand went to the man's throat.

"A blade from a blood mage," he ground out. "Reckless behavior in battle." His voice rose in volume. "Keeping the templars away from the clinic. Slicing your flesh open!" Anders's hands scratched at the one at his neck, a soft wheeze escaping his lips. "What is it, if not demon summoning?!"

"Then kill me already," Anders rasped.

That gave Fenris pause, a pause so long that Anders could have escaped, with enough effort. Perhaps it was the oncoming concussion stopping him. Was he not going to beg for his life? Insist he was innocent? Fenris narrowed his eyes, wrinkling his nose in distaste. A coward. He should not have expected any better.

"What the hell are you waiting for?"

Anders grabbed at the hand on his chest, but rather than try to push it away, to Fenris's astonishment, he pulled it in. The clawed tips of his gauntlet dug into the flesh of Anders's bare chest. Blood welled up on previously unmarked flesh, and, shocked, Fenris forgot his rage. Should he pull grant the mage's wish? Should he pull away?

"If you're so convinced I'm maleficarum now," Anders gasped out, propping himself up on one elbow, and it was only then that Fenris realized his grip on the man's neck had weakened. "Then kill me. I'm a blood mage, right? I'm going to summon demons using innocents. I'll keep slaves just for insane blood rituals!" He leaned up further, barely wincing when Fenris's gauntlets dug in a fraction deeper. "I'll be just like Danarius!"

 _Danarius._ The name of his former master had Fenris's blood boiling. Tattoos that he had not noticed growing dim suddenly flared to life, and he shoved Anders to the ground, growling in the man's face.

"As you wish," he snarled, and reached for Anders's heart.

And then there was a bright light, similar to his markings but originating from a different source, and pain erupted from the lyrium carved in his skin. Fenris was thrown backward, where he hit the wall and slumped, dazed. His markings were on fire, skin burning with an ironic familiarity that he had felt so many times under Danarius's magic. Head spinning and blinded from the light, he could not even muster a pained scream.

The light subsided, and there was a groan from where he had left Anders. The fire in his skin subsided somewhat and he blinked away the spots in his vision. He rose on shaky legs, leaning heavily on the wall, and fought to make out the form of the mage. When he did, it was to see Anders sitting up, clutching at his head.

"What . . . what did you do?"

Fenris's voice was not his own. It was the voice of a scared young slave, cowering before his magister, and he _hated_ _it._

"Justice," Anders muttered, voice strained.

Fenris felt his stomach lurch. The last thing he needed was a demon getting involved. He had no doubt that was what the thing was now. Anders had always insisted it was a benevolent spirit, but Fenris had always known better. Spirits and demons were no different from one another - Danarius had taught him that much.

Fighting to regain his strength, Fenris took a shaky step forward. He pulled his broadsword from his back, and Anders finally looked up at him, glaring defiantly in his last moments, wordlessly challenging him. Fenris held the point of the blade to Anders's throat in response. If the demon would not allow him to get close, he would simply lop the apostate's head off in one swing.

Fenris opened his mouth to ask the man if he had any last words, but Anders interrupted him with a petulant, "Do you always take this long to slaughter blood mages?"

 _"Fasta vass,"_ Fenris growled. "As you wish, maleficar."

But before he could swing his sword, the blue light returned, a soft shimmer around Anders's body. Alarm bells rang in Fenris's head as the lyrium in his skin sang in response, but it was not painful this time, and the light did not spread beyond the mage. Anders's eyes were a vivid blue now, no iris or pupils visible. He pushed the blade away with surprising force and stood.

 _"I cannot allow you to kill Anders,"_ came the warbled low pitch Fenris knew as Justice, moving Anders's body around and using his mouth to speak, all in a way so different than Anders did himself.

Fenris was hardly equipped to fight a demon. In this position, he felt like a cornered wolf, both aware of its weakness and prepared to take on the world for freedom. He spat out another curse in Tevene. "I don't deal with demons," he said shortly. "Especially not ones fused with blood mages."

Justice shook Anders's head. The movement was unnatural in a way Fenris could not pinpoint. _"He lies to you. He is no blood mage."_

The protest was almost hilarious, and Fenris snorted. "Right," he sneered. "That's why he's covered in lacerations."

Justice raised an arm. He inspected the deep cuts covering the otherwise smooth skin and, as he narrowed his eyes, Fenris felt the tug of the Fade. Skin knitted back together, leaving behind an unmarred expanse of flesh.

 _"He believes he deserves them,"_ Justice said, and he sounded almost sad. Fenris perished the thought. Demons cared nothing for their hosts. _"He will not like that I have healed them. They are a worthy punishment for crimes he has not committed."_

"He has committed many crimes, demon, and you know it," Fenris retorted. Justice turned those unnatural eyes on him.

 _"He did not kill the girl in the Gallows,"_ he said simply. _"And he is doing no wrong now. Do not kill him for something he has not done."_

And then the blue light vanished, and Anders was collapsing on the ground in a huddled heap. Fenris let his sword fall to his side as he watched the mage collect himself, putting a hand to his forehead and hissing slightly.

"You should have killed me," he said, and this time it was not the manic voice he had heard before, but something weak, pathetic. Hazel orbs were dull when they met forest green, the sadistic grin replaced with a blank expression and tired eyes. "Just be done with it already, Fenris."

 _He is no blood mage._

Fenris stared at him a long time, mulling over Justice's words, long enough that Anders slumped once more and stared at the ground. Finally, he sheathed his sword and crossed his arms.

"Why?" he asked. His mouth felt dry, and he could not understand for what reason. Anders snapped his head up to look at him, eyes widening in bewilderment.

"What do you mean, _why?"_ he demanded incredulously. "The Fenris I know would never turn down an invitation to cleave me in half." The brief passion faded once more. "You hate me. What end is more fitting?"

Fenris wanted to shout at him, to scoff, to shake him, to storm away and never talk to him again. Why was he so impossible? Here Fenris was, trying to come to an understanding for once, while Anders fixated on death. Had he no shame?

It was an odd sense of pity that had Fenris sighing instead. Thoughts of suicide, he was no stranger to - he had pined for death often under Danarius, had wished for the embrace of death. But Anders was no slave; he was not under a whip, his friends were not being slaughtered before his eyes, he was not playing prey to filthy, hungry wolves that wore the guises of men. The worst he faced were a few men in armor telling him to control his magic.

"Why do you want to die so badly?" Fenris clarified dryly. Anders shook his head.

"What do you care?" he snapped.

Frustration coursed through Fenris at that. Forget pity! He would not try to comprehend his struggles if Anders was not going to meet him halfway. He should have known better. There was nothing good between them - he was a fool to try and attempt understanding.

"Then I am leaving," Fenris said curtly.

He turned his back and made his way slowly through the clinic, noting idly that the dwarf woman was somehow still asleep. As he did, he heard Anders push himself onto his feet, finally, and pad over to the corner where the knife had skidded off to. A soft _chink_ of metal on stone signified him picking it up, and the hairs on the back of Fenris's neck stood on impulse.

"The girl at the Gallows."

It was so quiet that anyone without the sensitive ears Fenris had would not have heard it. He stopped mid-clinic and inclined his head, listening closely for more. Justice had mentioned her, as well.

"You did not kill her," Fenris said, only a little louder than Anders. The man gave a quiet, mirthless laugh.

"I almost did," he whispered.

There was nothing else to say after that. True to his word, Fenris left. He left with a mind both rampant with activity and numbingly blank, his feet carrying him up the stairs to Lowtown and into the Hanged Man, and then up to Hightown when it was revealed that Hawke had turned in for the night. He left behind the broken mage he had conspired against, and returned to his fellow conspirator with an awkward feeling stirring in his gut.

"Serah Fenris! Allow me to fetch the messere for you - "

"Fenris?"

Hawke's voice snapped him out of his stupor. He had not even stepped inside the mansion. He met her icy blue gaze, questioning and expectant, and forced himself to speak.

"Anders is no threat," he said simply, and left before the embarrassment of his assessment and guilt of his accusations could catch up to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**this chapter is potentially triggering, as fenris expresses some very ignorant views about suicidal ideation. he will grow to learn better, but for now, be warned.**

.

Fenris could not get the thought out of his head.

The memory was . . . somewhat chilling. While he often threatened Anders, even fantasized about giving him a clobbering or two, his imagination generally included a lot less blood and even fewer scars. There was no mistake - whatever Anders' reason, something was very much wrong if he was mutilating himself that badly.

But what?

Fenris remembered well his years in slavery, his crippling lack of will to live, the constant, background desire to end it all. He had faced physical and emotional abuse alike, been a punching bag to Danarius and stress reliever alike, had watched those he served with tortured and slaughtered like livestock for no good purpose. Fenris was no stranger to existential dread.

Obviously he had not self-harmed; Danarius had done enough harm to him without help, and of course, had he left a single mark on his own precious body, the magister would doubtlessly have punished him. Even without those things, Fenris had found the idea of bringing a blade to his skin without intent of death to be pointless. How could he subside his suffering with even more suffering?

And yet Anders, a free man, had so easily done that to himself. Snarky, annoying Anders, who was always ready with a biting retort, who selflessly aided the people of Darktown, who loudly shoved his opinions down the throats of anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby.

It was truly baffling. Fenris had spent years in quite literal torture, whereas the worst thing Anders dealt with was watching his mouth around templars. Fenris had struggled through without doing any harm to himself, and yet Anders was being quite violent in his self-punishment. What did Anders even have to be miserable about?

Of course there were emotional aspects to such things - Fenris recalled clearly that demon mentioning self blame - but the pieces still added up little. Everyone felt guilt for their mistakes, but they bettered themselves and moved on. Anders had not even done any wrong, technically speaking - that girl was alive - and even if he had, there was no reason to wallow in self pity. Anders had a support system.

Fenris even took time to observe and validate that claim - from the shadows, of course, as Anders had refused to venture out anywhere Fenris would be after the incident. He found him reminiscing on old memories with Isabela, swapping wild tales with Varric, even getting into surprisingly non-hostile discussions about old magic with Merrill. Darktown was full of people who sang praise for the healer.

Anders was surrounded by people who cared for him. What possible excuse could there be to resort to such foolish extremes?

Many days passed before Hawke came knocking once more, finally requesting aid. Fenris feared she had been angry at him for his bold assumptions, and she even had her hands on her hips when he answered the door, but the confrontation was unexpected.

"I hope you don't plan on any stalking today," she said, tone accusatory. "I need your help." Fenris could not stand to look her in the eye.

"You knew about that?"

Hawke snorted. "I see everything, Fenris. And I'm not the only one. Isabela hasn't shut up about you making bedroom eyes at Anders, and don't think Varric won't pick up the idea too."

"There were no bedroom eyes," Fenris retorted defensively. "Isabela says that about everyone."

"Whatever, I don't want to know." Hawke paused. "Okay, maybe I do. But save it for later."

.

To Darktown they went, after collecting Aveline from the nearby Keep and Merrill on the way past Lowtown. Fenris had paid little attention to what they were there for. It did not end up mattering; not twenty feet from the stairwell they were ambushed by a small army of dwarves.

Not that he would ever admit it to Varric, but watching a band of tiny, angry men rush him was rather amusing - up until one stabbed him in the thigh, of course. He generally would pace himself in a fight, but he found himself caught off guard this time. Rogue after rogue came after their small party, each gap being replaced by another, and Fenris realized abruptly that something was different. Wrong.

To his left he found Hawke slicing furiously through the dwarves surrounding him, and she threw herself against his back so they could fight together.

"Feistier than normal, aren't they?" she shouted over the commotion. Fenris cleaved through another thug only to find two replacing them. "We need a better position!"

Getting the message, Fenris pushed forward, taking three Coterie out in one go. Pacing was not going to win this fight; they needed to strike quickly and harshly if they wanted to survive.

Hawke took the gap in stride, vanishing before Fenris' very eyes. She materialized just behind the crowd and took a dwarf out with each dagger and, before the rest could swarm her, Fenris dived in for another kill. She took her place at Fenris' back once more, and this strategy continued a few more times with varying degrees of success until they had moved from the cramped hall to a much more defensible clearing.

Fenris was not sure how they had managed it, but Aveline and Merrill had kept up, but not without their own injuries. Hawke was sporting a bleeding gash on her stomach and the Coterie had pinned their strategy and they were stuck, yet Fenris had not missed where Hawke was directing them.

She elbowed him sharply in the ribs, yelling over the chaos, "Go!"

The jab was quite unnecessary, but Fenris went without complaint. The markings across his skin flared brilliant blue, and then his skin was fading into translucent white. A rogue came swinging, but passed straight through Fenris, and fell straight onto one of Hawke's blades.

There was no time to waste. Fenris passed right through the crowd, hopefully disorienting them, and sprinted north and down a set of stairs. He had to act quick, or by the time he returned, there would be nobody to help.

He had to get Anders.

His leg throbbed painfully as he ran, but thankfully they were not too far from his destination. Hopefully it would be enough. Another flight of stairs - going up was significantly more painful than going down - and he was at the clinic doors. Without pause, he slammed the door open.

The clinic was not bustling as it sometimes could be, but there were still a great many pairs of eyes staring him down as he stood in the splintered doorway, panting, including the cold, judging hazel that was Anders glaring at him from across the room.

"What." It was no question, but a demand, an order to state his purpose. Fenris fumbled for words.

"Coterie," he managed. His mind moved a mile a minute, but only seemed to produce coherent words sparingly. "Hawke needs help."

Anders wasted a few more of their precious seconds to shoot daggers from that blazing gaze before he sighed and leapt into action. "Of course she does," he muttered, turning away sharply toward a desk in the corner. From it he plucked a lyrium potion and downed it quickly, shoved a few red flasks onto his belt, then picked up his staff from where it lay propped against the stone wall nearby.

He approached Fenris in the doorway, and the elf expected him to stop or prompt him for directions, but Anders hurried straight past him and down the steps in front of the clinic. Dumbfounded for only a second, Fenris forced his tired legs to move once more and follow the mage. He supposed the fighting was audible.

He quickened his pace to keep up with Anders, but the man hardly acknowledged him. Tension crackled in the air like Bethany's favorite lightning spells. There was hardly time to dwell on it - he would have to do so later.

They happened upon the battle worse than Fenris left it. Merrill stood pale and shaking, barely upright as she leaned against her staff for support. Aveline had her shield up, placing herself between Merrill and the thugs as she slashed wildly at any that came too close, and Hawke was left to fend for herself a distance away, daggers a blur as she did her best to ward off adversaries on all sides.

"Aveline, back!"

It was all the warning Anders gave. She had seconds to act on it, throwing herself backward and crushing Merrill into the corner before Anders was throwing his arm in a wide arc. A wall of flames sprung up between them and the coterie, a barrier. Of course, that had the coterie turning their attention to Anders, but he was far from finished.

He raised his hand in Hawke's direction, palm radiating light, and a similar white, glowing sheen covered her skin. Fenris picked up what sounded like a breathless chuckle before Hawke was suddenly pushing her foes back, downing one, then another, and they backed off warily.

A sizeable number of coterie thugs were rushing Anders now, and Fenris readied his sword, prepared to protect this squishy mage if need be. It was unnecessary. With a wave of his hands they were enveloped in fire, hair and clothes alight, and a terrible smell had Fenris suppressing a cough as smoke filled the air from their still-burning corpses.

It was over.

Anders slumped then. Whether it was from relief or exhaustion, Fenris did not know. The mage waved a hand around in the air in front of him, grimacing. Hawke sheathed her daggers coughed only somewhat exaggeratedly.

"You never get used to that smell," she grumbled. "Everyone alive?"

"Barely," came Aveline's urgent voice from the corner. The three of them glanced at one another before rushing to the guard's side.

Aveline had a rather deep gash in her side, and was bleeding somewhere on her thigh. Anders pushed his way forward and held out his hands, glowing a soft blue, over her wounds, but she shook her head fussily and shoved him away. Instead, Aveline turned to Merrill, supporting the elf with an arm behind her back.

"Not me, her," Aveline snapped, and immediately Fenris could tell what had happened. Merrill's usually rosy cheeks were pallid, almost ghostly, and she was barely keeping her eyes open. No doubt the others knew as well, but Aveline explained anyway. "She's practically drained herself dry. If you don't do something fast . . . "

Another stressed sigh from Anders. It was nearly imperceptible, but Fenris saw the way he moved as if to push up the sleeves of his coat, and a second later seemed to think better of it. "Set her down gently. I'll see what I can do."

Aveline obeyed, and Fenris found himself roped into helping, lowering her to sit on the dirty floor with her upper half propped up against the sturdy wall that was Aveline. Hawke paced nervously behind them, staring anxiously back with every limp body she searched for some kind of valuable loot.

Anders went to Merrill's arms first, and with that same blue glow traced over each deep laceration. Her skin was a jarring sight even as Fenris watched her skin knit together seamlessly. It was so similar to how Anders' arms had looked that evening - how they probably looked right that second.

The thought was unsettling.

"Aveline, keep her awake," Anders ordered, effectively snapping him out of his reverie. Aveline nodded and patted firmly at Merrill's cheeks, muttering to her to keep her eyes opened. Those usually sparkling jade orbs were now so dull. "Fenris, uncork these bottles."

Fenris hesitated - not just to get close, but it had been so long since Anders had actually acknowledged him - but one foul look from the man had him hurrying. He grabbed the flasks of healing potion from Anders' belt and went to work opening them, despite his clawed gauntlets perhaps not being quite up to the task.

"How many?" he asked, unsure when he should stop. Anders did not look at him.

"Four of them. I should only need three, but you can never be too sure."

While Fenris finished up, Anders gave Merrill a rather harsher tap on the cheek and her eyelids fluttered, a bit wider than before. He reached blindly for a potion and Fenris obediently shoved an open one into his hand. Anders pressed the rim to Merrill's lips.

"Come on," he said briskly, tilting it back. "Drink up. You need to knock a few of these back."

A weak groan was all Merrill could afford in reply, but her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and Anders passed the job to Aveline as he started to work on her other arm. The tug of his magic at the lyrium in Fenris' skin was growing uncomfortable, so he stood and backed off, still shamelessly listening into the healer's grumbling.

"Andraste's ass, what were you thinking? Cuts these deep can kill, you absolute fool!"

Anders would know about that, wouldn't he? If not because of his knowledge as a spirit healer, then . . .

"Had to do something," Merrill replied softly, a quaver in her voice, though the fact she could speak was a good sign. Aveline shushed her by shoving another potion in her face.

"And what would all this be worth if you died, hm? Maker's breath."

Fenris wondered if Anders found irony in the situation, though that was hardly the only irony to be found. He forced himself to turn away from the scene to find Hawke poring over a crumpled piece of parchment. He came up behind her, eyes scanning the parchment, trying to pretend it did not aggravate him how unintelligible the scribbles were.

"Don't worry," Hawke said with a snort, as if reading his mind. "I can hardly read it myself. I guess criminals aren't big writers . . . or the people who hire them. Don't they know they can just talk to me directly? Take out the middlemen?"

There was mirth in her tone, but her frown was deep. Hawke glanced back to Merrill, who was sitting up on her own now, still pale but cheeks regaining a pink hue. She looked back down at the letter, eyes skimming it once more, and settling on what Fenris could only assume was a signature. A second later Hawke was tearing the paper to shreds, a scowl on her lips.

Fenris did not often see Hawke angry. Then again, her friends were not often on the verge of death. Hawke moved over to where the other three sat with just a few long strides, crouching on her toes to their level, and all Fenris really knew to do was follow.

"How's she doing?" the rogue asked briskly.

"Much better, actually! Thank you, Anders."

"Don't even talk to me, I am _furious_ with you."

Merrill's voice was easing back into her usual chipper tone, Anders continued to fuss, the tension in Hawke's shoulder eased, Aveline breathed a sigh of relief, and Fenris . . . even Fenris would be lying if he claimed her loss would not have impacted him. Blood mage or not, she had fought in enough battles at his side for him to at least wish no ill upon her.

That was how their merry band of misfits operated, was it not? No matter how much disapproval they each expressed toward Merrill and her actions, no matter how much Aveline scolded them all, no matter how often Isabela cheated at Wicked Grace - no matter what topics they might butt heads on, at the end of the day, they would still play a round at the Hanged Man, and none of it mattered.

They did not have to understand each other, or even agree on the most crucial of matters. They still had one another's backs. Sure, it was mostly Hawke's doing, but it was true nonetheless.

"Here."

Lost in his reflection, Fenris took a second to process the potion that Anders was shoving at him. The fourth one he had opened. Fenris took it, squinting at Anders, who raised an eyebrow at him.

"You still have injuries, and I'm spent after that one," Anders supplied, jerking his thumb at Merrill. "So take it."

Fenris had no response. He wondered if Anders understood the unspoken thanks when he downed the potion and backed off. They did not have to understand one another, but Anders seemed to anyway, judging by his quick, satisfied nod.

"Hawke, no taking Merrill along anywhere for three or four days. Merrill, drink plenty of water, and don't go wandering Lowtown aimlessly until you're better." Anders stood, brushing the dirt from his robe. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to the clinic."

Perhaps Fenris could try a little harder to understand, himself.


	5. Chapter 5

With Merrill out of commission, Anders was at Hawke's side on nearly every mission she went on, which had a tendency to be multiple a day. Even Fenris, a common staple to her party what with his uncommon abilities, did not go out with her nearly as often as she was dragging Anders into jobs.

The bags under Anders' eyes were more pronounced than they had ever been before.

Of course Hawke was the only person with enough boundless energy to go on so many missions for so many people so many times a day, and it showed in the increasing slouch of Anders' shoulders and similarly increasing weight of his coin purse. Hawke had to up his share for the overtime and even then it was obvious that the compensation was not truly covering what Anders was missing in rest. Every time Hawke and whoever she dragged along with her came to get him, he was still hard at work in the clinic, unwilling to leave the residents of Darktown without their healer.

The sleep deprivation was evident in more than his posture. Fenris watched as Anders threw a fireball too close to himself, cursing loudly as he flapped away the fire on his sleeve, and he darted forward to dispatch a warrior trying to catch the mage off guard. Anders gave a small grunt of thanks, and swept out a hand to encase an approaching rogue in ice. Fenris took the opportunity to cleave through the cold block and send the man inside shattering into dozens of pieces.

"Ouch."

Varric winced at the sight as he approached them, gingerly toeing one of the chunks. He wrinkled his nose, and Hawke did the same in an almost perfect copy when she joined them, wiping her blades with a ragged cloth.

"Ouch," she echoed, then held out a bleeding arm to Anders with a pleading pout.

The mage sighed and took her hand, fingertips glowing in that telltale blue, and Fenris watched him heal her wounds for only a moment before turning his head away. His brands tugged as uncomfortably as ever at his skin, irritatingly distracting him from keeping a proper lookout for more threats as Anders healed Varric and Hawke's wounds.

The coast seemed clear. The dark stone streets of Hightown were silent once more. The shadows bore no sign of hiding men within them. There was no unsettling chill raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Nothing, truly, but the gentle sensation of fingers on his forearm.

Warmth flooded through him suddenly, an overall pleasant sensation that skimmed over his skin and left it tingling pleasantly. It did not last, however, the gentleness of the feeling fading far too quickly as the heat of it rose unbearably. His skin thrummed intensely with it, sparking over his tattoos and traveling down his spine to his rapidly weakening legs.

His brain flitted nervously back and forth, unsure of whether the sensation was wonderful or terrifying but leaning frighteningly toward the former, and in a moment of feverish panic his mind produced that venomous word - _magic._

Fenris flinched away abruptly.

Anders stared at him, hand still raised and glowing with magic, brows furrowed like he did not understand what he had done. Fenris almost believed that. Hawke and Varric peered at him from behind the mage, expressions varying degrees of curious and concerned. He was acutely aware of how hot his face still was and the fact that his brands were alight, and he willed himself to calm both his breathing and frayed nerves, the light dulling to a low glow before vanishing altogether.

"Oh," Anders mumbled into the quiet, blinking suddenly and closing his fist so the magic dissipated. "Sorry, I . . . forgot. I have a potion," he continued, fumbling at his belt quickly. "Here - "

"Don't," Fenris barked.

He itched to take a step back despite the threat of magic gone, but forced himself to stand his ground anyway. Hawke stepped around Anders. She raised a hand, then lowered it, clearly thinking better than to clap his shoulder or thump his back.

"You good, Fen?" she asked, drawl as casual as always, enough so that Fenris could pretend there was no concern in those icy blue pools. On Anders' other side, Varric patted the mage's bicep gently.

"Maybe you should head home, Blondie," he murmured sympathetically. "Get some rest."

Their gazes did not leave one another despite the rogues' efforts. A glare with more than a sprinkling of fear, a stare flooding with guilt. Finally, Anders turned away, yawning exaggeratedly, and Fenris was left to glower at his back instead.

"You're right. Sorry, Hawke. It's time for a nightcap."

Hawke's lips pulled into a frown, but she waved the healer goodbye anyway, if incredibly unenthusiastically. The remaining three of them watched as he trailed down the street, then out of view as he rounded a corner. Hawke followed his exit up with a stretch, yawn, and a pointed glare at Varric.

"Did you have to chase him off?" she complained, dropping her arms to her sides with a pout.

Varric matched her glare, clearly not having it. "He's exhausted, Hawke. The man needs some rest." _He does,_ Fenris agreed silently, only just stopping himself from nodding.

"I know," Hawke relented, sweeping her hair out of her face with a sigh. "But now we're short a mage. Can we even take on that hideout with just the three of us?"

Of course. Surely somewhere in there, Hawke cared about Anders' predicament, but for now all that mattered was the foiling of her plans. Hawke cared about her companions, but her priorities were known to be . . . skewed.

"Have you met me?" Varric was bragging lightheartedly. "I could clear the place out single-handedly!"

"I don't exactly feel like scraping dwarf remains off the floor. Maker, this would be so much easier with Anders! I give him more than enough time to sleep, but he still shows up like that."

"We don't all have the luxury of partying with whores and sipping wine while we wait for the next Hawke adventure, you know."

"Then maybe, I don't know, he should hire an assistant? Goodness knows I pay him more than enough for one."

"True," Varric mused, "but he's the only healer in Darktown. The only one willing to out himself, anyway."

"I'm just so tired of him turning up every day like sleep is for the weak - "

"I'll help him out, then."

Fenris regretted the words the moment he spoke them, and then appreciated them once more at the sheer bafflement on both of the faces peering at him. If only he could capture the image and show them how ridiculous they looked, gaping at him like fish.

"We're talking about the same Anders, right?" Varric asked slowly. "About six feet, luscious locks, apostate mage?"

"Are you feeling alright, Fenris?" Hawke chimed in, glancing him over. "He didn't cast some weird friend spell on you?"

Fenris snorted. "If it will stop your incessant whining," he replied with pointed irritation, "then I'll see what I can do to help out."

Out of sass and left with only confusion, Hawke merely said, _"What?"_

"As long as his idea of helping doesn't include murder, I support it." Varric finished his sentence with a shrug, and slung Bianca over his back. "It's getting real late, Hawke. I need to call it a night, too, if we're not going on that raid."

Apparently also out of energy to argue, Hawke simply watched him go with a grumpy frown. All she offered Fenris was an expression of mixed frustration and resignation before she wordlessly tottered off toward home, not even bothering with a goodbye.

.

Saying he would help was one thing. Doing it was another. When Anders joined them once again, bags under his eyes deeper than the Deep Roads and darker than the slums he lived in, Hawke raised an eyebrow at Fenris as if to say, _I thought you were going to do something._

He was. Fenris had fully intended to, but that was last night. He had since decided that he did not, in any capacity, want to be alone with an abomination, let alone help him recover his health. That sounded like a pointedly bad idea. Perhaps it would be fine - after all, Hawke had let him go early, so perhaps that had left the mage enough time for proper sleep.

It hadn't.

"Shit, Fenris, I am _so_ sorry - "

"Enough," Fenris snarled, reeling backward into the rock face of the mountain with his foot raised. His ankle throbbed horribly and he was almost positive it was broken. "You have done enough damage."

"This is becoming a problem," Aveline muttered, sheathing her sword and approaching Fenris. Anders bristled at the accusations.

"I didn't intend to hurt anyone!"

"I don't know, Anders," Hawke replied, joining Aveline in inspecting Fenris' ankle. "Intentional or not, casting ice under our best warrior - sorry, Aveline - and making him twist his ankle is a pretty fucking big mistake." She straightened and placed her hands on her hips, glaring at the healer. "I thought I told you to get proper rest."

Anders leaned on his staff, averting his eyes in shame. "My work doesn't stop just because you say so, Hawke."

 _"Kaffas,"_ Fenris interrupted in a hiss, agitation growing as his ankle throbbed. "Shut up."

"I think it might be sprained," Aveline said, straightening up, and relief coursed through Fenris. "Anders?"

"Can he wiggle his toes?" the mage asked, reluctantly approaching. His face was so gaunt and exhausted that Fenris could not bring himself to make eye contact. Instead, he focused on moving his toes. The motion brought excruciating pain, eliciting a grunt, and with dread he realized he could not control the extremities. "No? Ah . . . damn. Then it's probably a fracture. I can heal it, but . . . "

He faltered, an unspoken question. Fenris did not welcome even the friendliest of magics on his person, and for better reason than most realized. He got the impression that Anders, however, might have some guesses as to why.

Shaking his head, Fenris said, "No magic."

Hawke clicked her tongue impatiently, turning her irritation on Fenris now. "Seriously? No way, Fen, I need you here. I get you have that thing where you want to rip the heads off every mage to ever exist, but come _on!_ Get over yourself, will you?"

"Hawke," Aveline snapped, stepping in where Fenris was both too angry and in too much pain to. "That's unnecessary."

"Even after yesterday, he still wants to waste valuable time that we could be using to get shit done," Hawke complained. "Stop being a baby and let Anders do what he does best, will you? 'Least he can fix his fuck-up."

That felt extremely unfair. Angry though Fenris was at Anders for getting him into this mess, it was Hawke's fault that it happened at all. But Anders seemed more offended than upset, the mage clenching his fists and squaring his shoulders.

"Andraste's ass, Hawke," he scolded, venom in his tone, "people are allowed to have boundaries! You want me to force something he doesn't want on him so you can, what, put some more coin in your already overflowing coffers? Stop being so damn selfish!"

Anders took a deep breath and let it out, calming himself, and Aveline put a supportive hand on his shoulder. Hawke's glare was sharper than her daggers, but they were matched by that of the other party members, so she turned on her heel and retreated a few paces away, avoiding the judgmental stares of her companions. Anders sighed, shoulders sagging, and turned back to Fenris.

"I can wrap it, but I don't have anything for a splint," he told the elf, running agitated fingers through his tattered locks. "We need to get you back to the clinic. Aveline?"

"I can walk," Fenris started to protest, but when both the guard and mage gave him thoroughly unimpressed looks, he accepted the help to stand.

"You're _all_ leaving?" Hawke protested, glancing between her companions with a plea in her voice. Anders' worked his jaw, visibly annoyed.

"I suppose we should just leave Fenris to the wolves, then?"

Hawke did not reply, and with Fenris' arms looped over both Anders' and Aveline's shoulders, they started to make their very slow trek back to the Undercity.

.

"Is this far enough?"

"Yes, I've got it covered from here."

"I'll be off, then. Stay safe."

"Thank you, Aveline. You too."

The clinic already had a few patients inside, a few lying motionless on their cots, one moaning in pain, and another throwing up into a bucket. Fenris wrinkled his nose and looked away, trying to give the poor man some sense of privacy. Anders led him to an empty cot and helped him seat himself on it, then turned to retrieve supplies from a nearby table.

"It's pretty empty in here right now," Anders said, clearly to fill the silence. "Lucky you."

"Lucky me," Fenris humored him.

"They've all got ague," Anders continued, returning with two straight, sturdy sticks, and a roll of bandages. Seeing Fenris' concerned glance, he added quickly, "It's not contagious. Not from them, anyway. It comes from the mosquitoes. This damp heat is perfect to them." He tapped Fenris' knee, and the elf gingerly raised his leg and propped his ankle up on the cot. "I know I'm not going to the docks for at least another two months after the last victim that comes through here."

"Have you had many through here?"

Anders smiled grimly. "That's pretty much all I've had for the past week. There's no cure, either." Anders unrolled a length of bandage. "This is gonna hurt like hell, by the way."

Fenris opened his mouth for a snarky response - it already hurt a _lot_ \- but then Anders was carefully lifting his calf, and Fenris was yelping, jerking his foot away and eliciting another shock of agony. Anders' eyebrows shot up, a mixture of surprise and amusement on his features, and he waited for Fenris to stop gasping for air and start swearing.

"Usually people pass out from that," Anders mused when no curses came. "Sucks to be you, I suppose. Are you sure you don't want me to heal it?"

 _No,_ Fenris thought in a moment of surprising clarity. He was most definitely not sure, actively weighing the pros and cons of allowing the healer to do his job even as they spoke. "Magic is . . . uncomfortable," he admitted, drawing his good leg up to his chest.

Anders cocked his head. "More than emotionally, you mean?" he asked, hitting the nail on the head. Fenris rolled his eyes, but nodded.

"Every time a mage taps into the Fade," Fenris explained, holding out his hand and inspecting the lyrium brands, "I can feel it. Every time magic is used in my presence, the lyrium tugs, as though your kind cannot help but try to tap into it. It is uncomfortable," he repeated. _Sometimes painful,_ he added silently, then recalled when Anders had mistakenly healed him. _Sometimes something else entirely._

"You do seem to . . . emanate energy, for lack of a better term," Anders replied, resting his chin in his hand. "I suppose all that raw lyrium makes it near impossible not to tap into, at least a little. But I'll pay more attention in the future."

Fenris met the curious gaze, shocked at the consideration in his tone. "I - thank you."

"It's only right," Anders said. He stretched, then reached for the bandages once more. "But back to the matter at hand - if you want me to do something, tell me now, before I waste these supplies."

It was truly a dilemma - Fenris very much did not trust Anders to be capable of limiting himself, and even if he did, channeling magic _into_ the lyrium proved just as problematic as drawing from it, albeit in different ways, and Fenris absolutely did _not_ want to shame himself in front of the mage. Additionally, if he allowed Anders to heal him now, it would open the door to pressure to be healed in the future.

"It'll just be a one-time thing," Anders added. "And I'll scold Hawke if she gives attitude. She'll listen to me."

Fenris snorted at the thought. Hawke did not listen to anybody. He was still hesitant, but the image of himself bedridden pushed him over the edge. He did not want to be stuck at home until the several weeks it would take for his ankle to heal.

"Fine," Fenris relented, hugging his knee closer to himself and averting his gaze. "Go ahead."

The tips of his clawed gauntlets dug into his leggings as Anders' hands started to glow, and in a brilliant flash of blue, Fenris' brands lit up the second the magic touched his skin. Heat coursed through the brands, searing his skin and sending white-hot sparks like electricity up his spine, and he flinched. Anders hesitated, peering up at him, but when Fenris said nothing he continued.

The warmth fogged his mind, and it took all his energy not to make noise. The sensation was not unpleasant; rather, it was the exact opposite, and a different heat rose in his face, undoubtedly manifesting as a vivid red. To send magic coursing through his system rather than stealing it was nothing any mage had ever done to him, and the side effects were shameful enough that he never wanted to do it again.

"All done," Anders announced, the light fading from his hands. He paused, frowning at how Fenris had half his face buried behind his arm. "Does it hurt?"

 _No,_ Fenris thought bitterly, but how could he even begin to explain that kind of shame to the mage? "I will be fine," he replied evasively instead, not a lie.

Anders did not seem totally convinced, but let him be anyway, turning away and heading toward a table with an empty bucket on it. "Right, well. Don't do anything strenuous for a day or two. That means - "

"No adventuring with Hawke. I know." Fenris' skin was finally cooling, and he uncurled himself, finally feeling calm enough to stop hiding behind his limbs. "You should be resting."

Anders swapped the clean bucket with the vomiting patient's filled one, wrinkling his nose. "I have a job to do. These people need my help."

"They have ague," Fenris pointed out, though he watched with faint interest as Anders placed a cool, wet cloth on a woman's forehead. "They will die regardless of your help, mage."

"So they deserve to suffer in their final moments?" Anders snapped, irritation growing at his insistence. "Nobody else will ease their passing. It's the least I can do."

"Then let me take care of it," Fenris proposed. He had promised Hawke he would help, anyway, so he should probably keep his word. "You need rest. Hawke will have your head if you continue to neglect yourself." And his own head if he did not at least attempt to assist.

"And I'm supposed to trust you with my clinic?" Anders snorted. His hands fell on his hips, his gaze wary as it landed on Fenris. "Setting aside the fact that you'd probably behead me in my sleep, I doubt you have any idea what you're doing. You're no healer."

"Then tell me what to do," Fenris replied. "Surely four hands can work faster than two."

And they did, once Anders was finished glaring suspiciously as he weighed his options. Yet in his own way, he rebelled, sending Fenris off to the dingy little market in Darktown with a small coin purse and a list of ingredients to fetch from an herbalist Fenris did not know. It was a nuisance, being shunted out the door despite his offer of help, but at least Hawke could not say he had not tried. After all, doing this much for the mage allowed them to kill two birds with one stone.

When he returned with what Anders had requested, the sick bucket was already clean, each patient's forehead was covered with a clean, cool cloth, and the healer was slumped over his desk, eyes closed.

Fenris approached quietly and set the basket of herbs on the desk, trying to avoid waking him, but Anders sat up abruptly at the motion, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. Had he not been asleep? Anders' gaze moved over each of his patients before finally fixating on the basket, and his shoulders sagged. _Ah._ It became clear to Fenris then; Anders was accustomed to waking at the smallest noise, likely to help his patients at any moment.

"Thanks," Anders mumbled, reaching for a worn mortar and pestle amongst the desk's clutter. With practiced, automatic movements, he started to crush the herbs in the bowl. "You can head home now."

"And what of you?" Fenris asked, watching those hands move by simple instinct as Anders' eyes drooped. "Are you going to stay up all night again?"

"Someone has to watch the patients," Anders replied. The leaves were quickly becoming a gooey poultice, and Anders added a few more plants. "I know you're only doing this for Hawke, anyway."

It was the truth, and yet it stung. Fenris watched silently as Anders continued to work. Were those hands never at ease? They were always at work, helping, whether it was by hurling fireballs at Hawke's enemies or soothing the ails of those in need. They needed rest, but it seemed their job never ceased.

There was always someone to help, and Fenris was quickly learning just how much of that Anders did. Seeing him in his element, working endlessly to assist others despite his own fatigue, shed a new light on the mage - his hands were made to heal.

"I can handle switching out damp cloths," Fenris said. "Rest for tonight. I will wake you if anything comes up."

Anders did not have it in him to argue. Instead, he replied tiredly, "After I finish this."

As much as Fenris wanted to push, he knew how to pick his battles.


	6. Chapter 6

For the third time, Fenris wrung out a wet cloth and placed it on an ailing patient's forehead. The man had been quiet for some time, his breathing coming slower and slower. He would surely die soon. Fenris knew now, after tending to these men for the past few hours, how Anders felt. He hoped his assistance would at least ease their passing somewhat.

At some point, a woman had come in with her child, bleeding profusely from where he had stepped on something sharp, but as someone who often rejected Anders' healing, Fenris was not a bumbling fool when it came to treating less severe injuries.

"We came here for the healer," the woman had said, staring suspiciously at Fenris' long ears and spiky armor and white tattoos.

"The healer is resting," Fenris had replied in a tone that left no room for argument.

Perhaps he was not as gentle as Anders was - or as neat, or as precise - but his lyrium tattoos came with their own perks. The child had stopped whining fairly quickly, fascinated by Fenris' glowing tattoos and the way he could pass his grubby little hands through Fenris' own, making cleaning the wound and wrapping it with fresh bandages an easy task.

He had shooed them out with instructions to come back if it did not get better, a pleasant feeling settling in his chest at the act of helping someone. He could understand a little, perhaps, how Anders could stand to do this all day.

Anders was still asleep at his desk, but how, Fenris was not sure; a cold sweat had broken on his brow, and Fenris first thought he was lying about the communicability of ague until it became clear the man was having a nightmare. Occasionally, he mumbled, but the words were entirely incomprehensible. What he dreamt about was not something Fenris could guess, but he was not easy to wake anymore - even the child's wails had not moved him.

Just as he was musing about it, Anders jerked in his seat with a startled cry.

Fenris rose to his feet, unsure whether he should approach the mage, who was now gasping for air as though panicked. Anders ran a hand through his sweat-slicked hair, stopping short where it was tied back, and turned quickly to stare about the room. Whatever he was searching for in the clinic, he must have found, for his breathing started to relax and his shoulders untensed loosely.

Until his eyes landed on Fenris.

"You're still here."

Fenris wanted to ask if he was alright, but it felt as though it were far from his place. Instead, he replied, "As I said I would be."

Anders let out a short exhale, a pale imitation of a chuckle. "Nightmares," he answered the unspoken question, confirmed the unspoken guess. "One of the lovely perks of being a Warden. They don't put that in the pamphlets, unfortunately."

"Is that why you don't sleep?" Fenris could not prevent himself from asking. Anders paused, turning his head so that Fenris could not see his face.

"I don't enjoy it much, no," he replied quietly.

How could Fenris order him to rest more after learning that? How could he insist he go back to sleep knowing the man would just be plagued by more nightmares? Could a sleep that stressful even be considered rest?

"Usually I get the opportunity to nap more," Anders continued, pushing away from his desk and rising to his feet. "If I don't sleep very deeply, I don't dream, so napping between patients is enough."

"But you're too busy with Hawke for that," Fenris muttered, connecting the dots easily. "She's not going to give you a break. You should rest more."

He expected an argument, but the mage did not protest. He let out a quiet puff of air, a small sigh, heading for the sleeping patients. "You're right. In a bit - I need time. Sleep doesn't come so easily anymore."

Grateful that Anders had not immediately jumped on the defensive, Fenris granted him his time. He supposed Warden-related nightmares were probably bigger doozies than normal ones, if they had taken the sass from Anders' sails, and could not help but wonder what they consisted of. Fenris was no stranger to nightmares, himself, but never found himself so rattled by them - nor anyone else.

Anders piddled around the clinic a while longer, flitting nervously back and forth between the patients, but apparently Fenris had done well enough that his work could not be improved upon. Fenris did not know how long they silently coexisted, but eventually, finally, he watched as Anders pushed open the creaky door that led to his dingy bedroom and disappeared behind it. No thanks, no goodnight, no backward glance, only nervous fiddling with his tunic sleeves, and then he was gone.

It was odd, but Fenris supposed he should not expect companionship suddenly just over being granted a few hours of fitful sleep. He settled back against the wall he had been leaning on for the past couple hours and prepared for the rest of his long, dull night.

* * *

Fenris awoke with a start.

The clinic was mostly still, with Anders writing quietly at his desk and a new patient lying in a cot across from the others. She also had a cool cloth on her forehead, but also a few threadbare blankets wrapped around her, similar to the one draped over Fenris' shoulders.

When had he fallen asleep?

He stood, carefully folding the blanket and setting it on an empty cot. He had not intended to sleep. When had Anders' awoken? What time was it? The mage heard him rise, and presumably finished a sentence of what he was writing before turning in his chair to greet him. Guilt rose in his gut at the tired resignation in the healer's eyes, but they held only a little accusation in them.

"Morning," Anders muttered, facing what was probably his manifesto once more.

The new patient started up a pained whine, and Anders quickly pushed away from his desk, grabbing a pot of salve he had whipped up the night before from the clutter on it. He approached the woman, pushing the blankets away from her legs and raising the hem of her skirt just enough to inspect something on her leg.

"When did she come in?"

"Her sister brought her in. Infected dog bite." Anders peeled off the bandages and started to gingerly rub the salve around the tears.

"Dog bite?" Fenris echoed, trying to remember a time he had seen any strays in Darktown.

"There are feral mutts all over the residential areas," Anders replied, returning to his desk for another salve, and Fenris wondered idly what it did. "Some of the more desperate folk try to catch them for eating, but they're not easy prey."

Fenris could only watch as Anders carefully rubbed the new salve into the wound itself. The woman stirred surprisingly little, mollified by whatever the first ointment had been, and by the time Anders was bandaging her up again she was sleeping silently.

"Can you not simply heal her?"

Anders shook his head, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. "Not with the infection. She has to fend that off herself before I can do anything more for her."

"Will she fight it off?" Fenris found himself asking. Anders gave pause, looking him up and down suspiciously.

"Why do you care?" he voiced both of their thoughts. Fenris had no reply. Anders gathered the pots in one arm, heading back to his desk. "You should head home," he continued, irritation edging his tone. "Get some proper sleep before Hawke comes calling for us both."

"Mage," Fenris protested, reaching for Anders' wrist.

Maker's breath, here Fenris was, trying to understand him, and yet he was pushed away at every turn. Once again, now, with a sharp cry, Anders tore his arm away, indignance and pain flashing in his eyes. His hand flew to his chest, holding it close as though scalded. Dread growing in his chest, Fenris glanced to his hands, and found blood staining the clawed fingers of his gauntlets.

Anders had harmed himself again.

Fenris opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Anders was whirling around to march toward his desk. He set the salves down with a harsh _thud,_ and leaned over the desk, shoulders tense.

"Get out."

"Mage - "

 _"Out!"_

Fenris obeyed.

* * *

The final corpse fell to Hawke's blades just before its own could plunge into Fenris' back, and he nodded gratefully to her. "Thanks."

Hawke shrugged nonchalantly, whistling as she cleaned the blood off her daggers with an old handkerchief. Sundermount was eerily silent without the presence of the corpses' moaning and gurgling, and Fenris was reluctant to sheathe his sword. Merrill seemed to have the same idea, fingers clenching and unclenching on her staff. How could the mountain she had lived on bring her so much discomfort? At least they were on their way out.

"Anders seems better-rested," Hawke commented, falling into step with Fenris. "He didn't set himself on fire once today."

Fenris snorted, and Anders complained behind them, "I'm right here."

"Do you hear something?" Hawke asked, cocking her head, and Anders fell into quiet grumbling.

As the party made their way down the mountain path, the tension among them eased, and Fenris finally felt safe enough to return his blade to his back. The Dalish elves nodded in greeting as the party passed, but Hawke had no business with any of them, finding herself on the mountain for some other task.

Hawke looped arms with Fenris, drawing him closer to her side. Once, Fenris would have shied away at the touch, but he had grown used to Hawke as a touchy person. Lowering her voice, she said, "I'm sorry. About yesterday."

"Oh?" Fenris had contented himself with forgetting about the ordeal, which was usually the case with Hawke's temper, but she seemed put out, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. "You can be . . . unreasonable, it's true."

Hawke snorted. "I was a _cunt,_ Fenris."

"Was?"

"Hey!"

"It just seems like a title you'd wear proudly."

Hawke sniffed. "Only when I'm saying it about myself." She sobered a bit. "I see you let Anders heal you anyway? I . . . I hope I didn't make you do that."

"You did not," Fenris replied honestly. Hawke seemed to sag, relieved.

"Oh, good. I don't want to push you out of your comfort zone, or anything. I guess I don't really get it, sometimes. Boundaries. I don't really have them." Case in point - the way she was hanging on his arm. "I trek through mud and shit and corpses all day to do morally questionable tasks for money, y'know? There's not a whole lot I won't do." She blew out a sigh. "I need to work on that."

"Oh?" Fenris asked again, unsure of what else to say. Hawke chuckled.

"Not my boundaries, I mean, I'm still gonna do questionable shit for coin. But others. Everyone's boundaries. They all deserve respect, no matter how silly they seem to me. I'm sorry I didn't grant you that."

The apology tumbled around Fenris' head, confusing in its genuity. Fenris had not truly been angry with her. "This is uncharacteristic of you," he said, instead of making the moment any more serious. Hawke gave an affronted gasp, elbowing him ineffectively in the ribs.

"I apologize sometimes!"

"Yes, but you usually do not realize it needs said."

Hawke grumbled, placing her free hand on her hip. "Varric . . . may have scolded me."

"Aha. I shall thank him later."

Truly, Hawke was not an easy woman to stay angry with, and after the past night and morning, he had not been thinking about her at all. Still, if it put her at ease to apologize, he would accept it.

They made their trek back to Kirkwall as the sun slowly set, and Hawke made a beeline for the Hanged Man, claiming she needed something strong after the day's events. Fenris almost agreed, but Anders was already heading down into Darktown. Wondering how badly he would regret the decision, Fenris begrudgingly bade her goodnight.

He mourned the loss of a good drink and game, but he could not leave his business with Anders unfinished. They needed to talk before the rift between them got any worse.

Fenris snorted quietly to himself; he never imagined himself wanting to patch things up with that irritating mage, but it seemed their issues were only worsening despite his efforts, increasing the animosity between them. And whether Anders believed it or not, Fenris wished no ill on him. Especially not now.

No sooner had Fenris stepped foot in the clinic than Anders was calmly ordering, "Leave."

"No," Fenris said simply, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame. "We need to talk."

"You need to get out, Fenris," Anders snapped, bristling. Fenris cocked an eyebrow.

"I am not in," he replied easily.

Anders turned on him, hands clenched into fists. The clinic was surprisingly empty for the fact that the healer had not been in for half the day, allowing them to argue with no complaint from patients. Anders took long, purposeful steps toward Fenris, anger flashing in his eyes, but the elf did not falter, and soon they were standing less than a foot away, Anders' face twisted into a mask of fury.

"Fenris - "

Fenris reached down and, in a heartbeat, wrapped his fingers firmly around Anders' wrist. He jerked it upward, bringing it to eye level, and effectively drawing Anders that much closer. His grip was like iron, unbreakable, but he was careful not to jostle the cuts too much. Anders still winced at the motion.

"How does your demon feel about these?"

Anders' eyes narrowed. "It isn't up to Justice," he ground out through gritted teeth.

"That does not answer my question," Fenris pressed.

"To hell with your question!" Anders retorted. "How should I know? He hasn't stopped me yet. I doubt it matters to him. He was already possessing a corpse when I met him, anyway."

Taken aback at that information, a newfound loathing for Justice growing in the dark depths of his mind. He pushed it back for the moment. "Fine, then," he growled, irritation growing. "What about your patients? Hawke?"

"What do you care?" Anders spat bitterly. "I'm just another filthy abomination, aren't I? An abomination, a useless companion, a terrible healer that slacks off in his own clinic - "

Had he hurt himself again because he'd allowed Fenris to watch the clinic for him? Because Fenris had fallen asleep? Was he blaming _himself_ for Fenris' mistake?

"Mage," Fenris interrupted, and Anders flinched. The elf cleared his throat, trying to sound more gentle. "Anders. No one deserves this."

"I deserve this," Anders whispered.

Fenris gave an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. He released Anders' hand and slid past him, into the clinic. Two of the previous ague patients were gone, and with a pang Fenris realized they had probably passed on already. It was unfair, knowing how grim and inescapable their fates were.

"We can sleep in shifts," Fenris proposed suddenly.

"What?"

"We both get decent sleep, Hawke stays off your back, and the patients stay cared for." _And I can keep an eye on you,_ he thought to himself. Still, he remembered that had not stopped Anders before.

"Why?" Anders asked after a moment, sounding defeated. Fenris shrugged.

"Why indeed," Fenris muttered. "I suppose I simply cannot watch you continue to punish yourself for crimes you did not commit."

"So, what?" Anders did not seem impressed, placing his hands on his hips. "Pity, then? Or some kind of savior complex? I don't need your help, Fenris."

"Empathy, mage," Fenris replied, tone warning. "You may think me incapable of it, but I am not as inhuman as you think." He hesitated, but perhaps transparency, a mutual understanding, would get through to Anders. "I am no stranger to such thoughts. I cannot claim to understand everything you are doing and feeling, but . . . "

He trailed off. But what? He wanted to help? To offer an out, companionship, a friend? He did not feel he could be so open if Anders pushed. Not yet.

But Anders did not push. He sighed, scrubbed at his face with his hands, and shook his head. "I don't understand you, Fenris." But it felt like acceptance, and Fenris relaxed.

"Then the feeling is mutual. What needs done before you will rest?"

"Shopping, mixing potions, changing sheets -"

"One at a time, mage."

"Amateur."

They shared a small, uncertain smile. Perhaps they could do this. Perhaps Fenris could help, and Anders would get over whatever had been ailing them. With just a little help . . .

Perhaps.


	7. Chapter 7

Perhaps _perhaps_ was wishful thinking.

They took shifts, as proposed, and after some arguing Fenris reluctantly agreed to sleep first. He set his broadsword aside, seated himself on the ground against the wall near the clinic's entrance, and rested his arms on his knee, pillowing his head in them. Anders had given him an amused look, but thankfully did not do anything silly like offer his bed. That would be far too intimate for the shaky alliance they had just formed.

Fenris was no heavy sleeper. A slave had to be prepared to wake at the master's every whim, and now Fenris could not sleep through much of anything. So when Anders said his name, he woke easily, stretching and glancing up to see a laughably startled face, Anders' hand outstretched as though he had intended on jostling him.

"How are you so alert?" Anders grumbled.

"I do not need much sleep," Fenris lied, wary of the guilt that might come if the mage knew he was just as exhausted.

Anders chose to nap at his desk, for which Fenris was thankful. He did not wish to venture into the healer's private quarters to wake him later.

Fenris did not want to spend all his time waiting and twiddling his thumbs, so he busied himself with the bucket of soapy water Anders had been using to clean the rags he used around the clinic, pulling his gauntlets off so they would not rust.

As he worked he noted how threadbare they were getting. How often did Anders replace them? How often did he replace anything in the clinic, for that matter? Perhaps Fenris could ask about it later.

Time passed quietly during his shift, and soon enough Fenris had hung every clean cloth on the line of twine Anders had running between one of the pillars and the wall. It had sufficiently made the time pass faster, and it was nearly Anders' turn to wake.

Glancing over at him showed he was still fast asleep, but his face was scrunched up in discomfort. Another nightmare? How often did they strike? Surely not nightly?

Fenris wanted to wait the extra few minutes, knowing well that Anders needed the rest, but could not leave him to the tormenting dreams.

"Mage - Anders."

Anders stirred slightly but did not wake, so Fenris hesitantly reached out to jostle his shoulder. It was unclear whether it was the right choice or a mistake, but regardless Anders bolted upright with a sharp gasp, a glowing hand shooting out to grab Fenris' wrist. Fenris yanked his hand away, lyrium markings searing where Anders' fingers had been.

"Fen . . . Fenris?" Anders mumbled, glowing hands dulling before the magic dissipated altogether. Fenris rubbed absently at his wrist, still faintly burning from the touch.

"You were having another nightmare," he stated, as though Anders would not obviously have known himself. The healer rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes, shoulders sagging tiredly.

"Sorry," Anders muttered. "I didn't mean to . . . sorry. Is it my turn?"

Close enough, anyway, so Fenris nodded. Anders nodded back and stood, stretching to wake himself in preparation of his shift. Fenris returned to his resting place on the far wall.

"Oh . . . you washed these?"

"You had some swimming in there. They would have molded otherwise."

Fenris' attempt to make it seem like no big deal did not work. He could not see the mage's face at this distance, but Anders' voice was soft when he said, "Thank you."

Unsure how to reply, Fenris opted to attempt sleep instead.

* * *

Fenris awoke slowly, groggily. The candle lighting the clinic was still topped with a merrily dancing flame, sitting atop the desk innocuously. It took a few moments for Fenris to process anything, thoughts sluggish from sleep.

It was not Anders that woke Fenris. It could not have been, for the healer was nowhere to be seen. No, Fenris remembered . . . a creaking door? But the clinic doors remained firmly shut with deadbolts intact, so he had not left.

The bedroom, then.

Fenris had little wish to invade the mage's privacy. The last time he had, things had not turned out very well, and he did not wish to have a repeat of that night. Yet the silence of the clinic was unnerving, and the lack of the mage's presence moreso. Be it old habits dying hard or new ones developing, Fenris could not shake the discomfort nagging in the back of his mind, and decisively he stood and approached the door.

Last time, he had carelessly forced his way in, but despite the tension in the air he forced himself to knock quietly. His knuckles rapped against the wood, and he cleared his throat, unsure whether he should speak. _Is everything alright?_ he could ask.

. _. . are_ you _alright?_

There was a light shuffling noise from inside, nothing particularly rushed. Nothing to be concerned about.

"Go away, Fenris."

Now something to be concerned about.

"Mage - "

"You've still got time to sleep. Leave me be."

His voice sounded strained. It was the voice of a man trying hard to sound collected, a tone Fenris knew well from the political games of Tevinter. Was leaving Anders be the correct choice? Fenris had met his fair share of slaves whose minds turned to darker places - it was when they were alone that the whispers in their heads grew loudest, and when they were left too long that they would find them dead in the larder with a shard of glass in hand.

"I will give you five seconds, and then I am coming in."

A sharp intake of breath sounded on the other side of the door. "No, you aren't. If you break my door again it's coming out of your pocket."

"I will not," Fenris replied, a small promise, but an ounce of power, of lenience, given to the mage - the man. "But you cannot stop me from coming in."

A small sigh. "Of course I can't."

So quiet, so resigned. If not for his sensitive ears, Fenris might not have heard him at all.

There was no following sound, no movement from within. Anders did not stir. Still, Fenris granted him his few seconds, in case there was any privacy Anders could grant himself in such a short time. Fenris would not pry if he were to attempt to hide. But Anders showed no sign of such a thing, the silence deafening, and Fenris let his fingers curl around the door's handle.

Reluctance made it hard to turn. Why? What did he fear would be hiding within?

The door clicked quietly open, and Fenris was surprised to find it unlocked. Nothing in the room seemed disturbed, the bed still made as neatly as it could be with such tattered sheets, and Anders stood still in front of the mirror from before, facing away from Fenris. His signature thick jacket lay neatly folded on the bed, leaving him in a thin, faded undershirt, his still-healing cuts bared for the world to see. And in front of him, below the mirror, sat a simple wash basin, with Merrill's ornate knife perched on its edge.

"Why?" was all Fenris knew to ask.

Anders flinched, and some part of Fenris wished desperately that he would not. He hated the guilt that came with it, as though he could somehow be more gentle, more considerate. As though he could make Anders somehow loathe his presence, his questioning, just a little bit less.

"I wish I could give you a straight answer to that," Anders replied softly.

Frustration threatened to bubble up at such a vague response, but Fenris forced it to simmer down. "Try," he said instead.

Anders barked out a cold laugh. "Who knows, Fenris? Maybe because I'm pathetic. I'm weak." Fenris dared to approach, and he could see that beyond the healing cuts were new ones, weeping blood that dripped down Anders' arms and pooled in his hands. "I can't run my own clinic. I can't do my job. I'm useless to Hawke - to everyone. I can't face a few worthless dreams. And just to get myself back on my feet, I have to rely on _you."_

The last word was spat out like venom, and indignance rose in Fenris. To refer to him like that, like he was unwelcome, unwanted - like he was the worst possible choice - made his blood boil. But it was not about Fenris, and he forced himself to cool somewhat, focusing instead on the rest of the absurd things coming from the mage's mouth.

"And harming yourself fixes these things . . . how?" he asked rhetorically, cocking an eyebrow. "Or are you meant to atone through them somehow? How does this fix anything, mage?"

"It's all I can do," Anders said through gritted teeth. His fingers curled around the gifted blade, and he half turned, exposing the cuts to Fenris' sight more clearly. Fenris watched with bated breath, but Anders only delicately ran his thumb over the blade's edge. "Everything is so _much._ So much, and I - I don't know what to do. It's - it's a punishment, and atonement, and it's what I deserve, and - " He suddenly gripped the blade tightly in his palm, and Fenris made a startled noise as Anders seemed to frustratedly search for the right words. " - it's all I have," he finished lamely.

Fenris watched the blood drip from his hand onto the hard floor, leaving red over old rust-colored stains. How often did he do this? How long had this gone on? Anders' words tumbled and churned in his head, nothing making sense, none of them helping him understand. So he said the only thing he knew to be true.

"This is foolish."

It seemed the wrong thing to say. Fenris could see it in the hunch of his shoulders, in the tightening of his fist, in the concerning deepening of the laceration on his palm, could hear it in the harsh exhale that followed. Fenris reached out to take the knife before Anders could do further damage, but the mage whipped around to face him, and Fenris was taken aback at the raw fury in his eyes.

"You think I don't know that?!" he demanded, pushing his way into Fenris' space, putting them nose-to-nose. "Of course it's foolish! It's stupid! It doesn't always make sense, Fenris!" He paused to take a breath, but even the brief interruption of his anger gave way to lament, and his breath caught. He seemed to deflate a little, his voice trembling dangerously when he exhaled, "Maker, Fenris, I - I wish it did."

"Anders . . . "

Fenris did not know what to say. The burst of anger was not unexpected, but his words were, and Fenris struggled to wrap his head around them as Anders' chest heaved for breath. But he was not done.

"I wish I knew how to deal with it," Anders continued, voice still wobbly, if not worse. "If I could just - just bottle it up, or breathe it out, or even just talk it away, but that doesn't _work!_ All this misery and hatred and worthlessness just gets - t-trapped inside - and I d-don't know what to _do - "_

He was hiccupping on his words now, and with great discomfort Fenris found tears sliding from Anders' now red-rimmed eyes. Slowly, cautiously, Fenris pried the mage's fingers open, and found them surprisingly compliant as he took the knife away.

"Pain is familiar," Anders went on, voice pathetic at this point. His unoccupied hands now moved to his hair, matting it with blood. "Pain is _grounding._ I - I slice my skin, and it hurts, and everything else just . . . fades away. It's a relief. It's freedom. Everything is so loud in my head, all the time - I'm always thinking, hating myself, reflecting on my mistakes, taunting myself with my worst fears - a-and I just wish it would all _go away!"_

He was trembling all over, and Fenris realized he was sliding to the floor. He grasped Anders' elbows in an effort to slow his descent and found himself lowering as well, leaving them kneeling before each other, Ander's hands resting on his biceps.

"When I hurt myself, everything goes quiet. I . . . I forget." His voice was growing calmer, tired, the worst of his outburst clearly past. "I stop thinking. It's peaceful. I know it's not healthy. Maker, Fenris, I _know_ it's stupid. Of course it's stupid. But it's all I have."

Fenris remained quiet, waiting, hands still lingering on Anders' elbows as the mage's head and shoulders drooped. When it was clear he was finished, Fenris moved, slowly, to grasp Anders' injured hand. Blood was no longer pouring from the cut, and his fingers were cold, neither a good sign.

"Will you heal this?" he asked, tone low, as gentle as he could muster. Anders' brow furrowed and he opened his mouth as though to argue, but Fenris interrupted the protest before it could be said. "I will not ask you to heal the rest. I know how you feel about that, but this . . . it is your writing hand."

Anders squinted at him, mouth still ajar, protests dying on his lips. Fenris could feel his cheeks and ears heating from the scrutiny. It was an odd olive branch, a strange attempt at a truce, but it was truly genuine on Fenris' part. He could only hope Anders would accept it without question - or teasing.

To his relief, that soft, blue glow that Fenris knew was healing magic began to emanate from Anders' palm, and to his further comfort, the usual tug at his tattoos was kept to a bare minimum. Before his very eyes, the cut began to fade, sealed off harmlessly under all the blood. Anders flexed his fingers a few times and frowned, and Fenris felt his heart sink.

"Is something wrong?"

"The nerves should regenerate themselves," Anders replied, trying to sound cheerful past the nasally tone that came after crying. "In time."

Unconvinced but unwilling to push, Fenris sighed through his nose and closed both hands over Anders' injured one. It would be fine. As fine as it could be. Now was not the time to scold. In fact, Fenris was starting to wonder if there was _ever_ a time to scold. Instead, he took another deep breath, and decided it was time he addressed the outburst.

"I am trying to understand," he said honestly, choosing his words carefully. "It is . . . confusing. For the both of us," he added, hopefully mollifying the agitation starting to poke out of Anders' exhaustion. "What we do not understand, we have a tendency to fear, and when we're afraid, we do stupid things. Anything to erase that fear, to make things make sense."

"I . . . haven't ever heard it put that way," Anders admitted, peering down at his hand. Guilt hung heavy on his shoulders, and Fenris hoped his words had not put it there. "But you might be onto something, I think."

"Usually those stupid things don't include harming ourselves," Fenris agreed dryly, and Anders' lips curled upward in a grim smile. "But if it gives you some connection to hold onto, however weak, whether it's atonement, or punishment, or even just taking justice into your own hands - I think I can make a little more sense of it. I am still trying to wrap my head around it, but _thinking_ stupid things is not so far from _doing_ stupid things."

"Can you stop calling me stupid?" Anders grumbled, but his smile remained firmly in place. Fenris snorted.

"What I am trying to say is . . . I think I get it."

"You spend a lot of time trying to make sense of something that doesn't," Anders teased lightly. Fenris frowned - he was trying his best - and Anders relented. "Whatever helps you figure it out, I guess. I don't get it much better than you do."

They lingered there, perhaps longer than necessary, but weariness weighed their limbs down. It had been a tiring night, and Fenris was sure they were equally reluctant to stay up for the next shift, but after some internal scolding he knew he needed to take his turn. As it were, Anders was far greater a mess than he, and deserved the rest more. And probably a bath.

That drew his attention to the hand he was still holding, and in turn, the state of his arms. Fenris quickly released him, ears burning, and stood. "Stay put. I will take care of those."

Frowning, Anders said, "I can take care of myself, Fenris. I'm not a child."

Fenris paused at the door, fingers gripping the wooden frame tightly. _Let me do this for you,_ he wanted to say, but could not bring himself to. How he wished he could have helped the serving girls, the blood cattle, the bed slaves. How he wished he could have done something when he found the corpses in the mornings or heard the hushed whispers among the other elves, the mourning forced to keep quiet lest they be punished. He had known those slaves even less than he knew Anders, but lamented their absence all the same. But how could he express that to anyone, let alone Anders?

He did not have to. Sensing his tension, Anders sighed and asked, "Do you even know what to use?"

Trying hard not to seem as relieved as he felt, Fenris replied, "The red pot has something with elfroot in it. I assume that heals. I'm unsure what is in the yellow, but you sometimes use it first." Some clean bandages and wet cloths, too, but he felt those were obvious.

"It's a numbing agent," Anders said, sounding oddly pleased. "I don't need it. I only use it on the really awful stuff, especially if I'm going to be poking and prodding at it."

It was unnecessary information, and Fenris was not sure if Anders even knew why he had shared it, but he tucked the tidbit neatly away with the rest of his meager medical knowledge. If he was going to continue watching the clinic, he wanted to know as much as he could.

Anders wound up following Fenris into the clinic anyways against his orders, but he allowed the elf to wash his arms and apply the elfroot salve, then the bandages, without complaint. There was a surprising lack of awkwardness in the air between them, but shame hung over Anders like a persistent cloud, and the mage averted his eyes, unwilling to look at the deep slices in his skin.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you how to take care of them," Fenris said when he finished, carefully tucking the end of the bandage into itself.

"Maybe I don't want to," Anders replied.

Concern sparking, Fenris jerked his head up to search Anders' face, but something playful lurked in the mage's glittering hazel eyes. He sounded almost petulant. Teasing. What was this?

"You have to," Fenris told him, more than a little baffled. Then, in a leap of faith, he added, "Doctor's orders."

Anders blinked. Was he surprised Fenris had taken the bait? But the mage's lips turned up into a grin a moment later, which was quickly hidden behind his hand. Fenris watched as he schooled his expression and turned away, voice airy as his fingers drummed - nervously? - against his desk.

"Then I suppose the doctor will just have to come do it for me."

That . . . sounded like an invitation. Then they were okay. They . . . they were good.

"I suppose he will," Fenris agreed, the barest hint of a smile curving his lips.


	8. Chapter 8

_The demon's words pull, taunt, promise. Fenris cannot help but listen._

 _"With my aid, you could be free forever. You could have power enough to challenge any who would change you."_

 _Hawke snorts, rolling her eyes. "Really? How obvious can you be?"_

 _But Fenris' throat is dry, his eyes huge and heart thundering._

 _"What . . . would you want from me?"_

 _Hawke pauses, shock coming over her face, and the demon looks pleased._

 _"A moment of your time. Nothing more."_

* * *

Fenris woke suddenly, gasping for air.

He lay in a bed, and it took him far too long to process his surroundings. His companions were asleep still; Hawke was resting peacefully in a bed to his left, and with a start Fenris realized they were bunk beds. He could see Isabela asleep on the mattress above Hawke, so presumably, Anders was above Fenris.

Keeper Marethari was seated cross-legged on the floor at the end of the room, and she lifted her head at his waking. Their eyes met, hers full of sympathy, and a mix of anger and shame swirled in Fenris' gut. She knew.

"Arianni, da'len," Marethari called to the doorway, "bring Fenris some water."

"Yes, Keeper," came the reply from the other room.

Marethari's hands remained pleasantly clasped in her lap throughout the exchange, and as Arianni came through the doorway with a glass of water. The elven woman offered it to Fenris, eyes brimming with curiosity and concern, and Fenris raised a hand to turn it down, push it away.

"Drink," Marethari ordered.

Her voice held something old, something powerful, and a twinge of fear tugged at Fenris' heart. He reluctantly but obediently accepted the glass, nodding a thank-you toward Arianni, and took a small sip. Glancing over to the old elf revealed an unimpressed stare, so Fenris sighed and downed the water in a few gulps.

Marethari nodded, satisfied. "It is important to take care of yourself after such an experience."

Unsure of how to respond, Fenris merely fiddled with the glass in his hands, rolling it idly between his palms.

An experience? A nightmare. How could Fenris have been so foolish? How could he have betrayed his companions so easily? How could he have shaken hands with a demon? His fingers tightened around the glass. _How could I?_ he repeated internally, over and over until the words melted together and became an incomprehensible mess of misery and loathing. _To Hawke - to him?_

"I know what you think of magic, da'len," Marethari spoke up gently, "but you see now, don't you? It is not as simple as you think."

The glass splintered in Fenris' grasp. Startled, he quickly released it, only for it to hit the ground and shatter. Arianni hurried into the room, a question on her lips and worry in her eyes, and Fenris could only stare at her like a child caught in the act, mortification written all over his face. Her eyes went to the glass fragments on the floor and her shoulders sagged, but she mustered up a reassuring smile before leaving to retrieve a broom.

He could not look at Marethari, but disapproval radiated from her in waves.

Thankfully, it was Isabela's turn to wake; she surged upward suddenly, rising into a sitting position with a loud gasp and a hand on her chest. Chest heaving, she fought for breath, eyes scanning the room, before they landed on Fenris.

"Oh," she said, sounding strained.

Arianni came back with a fresh glass of water, seeming reluctant to offer another piece of dishware lest it be broken again, but Isabela was much more gentle with it. She gulped it down like it was the first drink she'd had in days as Arianni swept up the mess Fenris had made, and after catching her breath, passed the cup back to the elven mother with a small word of thanks.

"That was horrible," she finally managed, and Fenris made a low noise of agreement. But it was not like Isabela to keep down, so she mustered up a smirk and added, "I'm never letting a demon come inside me again. I guess there's some lines even _I_ can't cross."

"Shut up," Fenris sighed, no real venom in his tone, burying his face in his hands. He could practically hear Isabela's pout, could imagine her offense. But her words, when she spoke again, hid a gentle reassurance behind airy indifference.

"Oh, don't take it too hard, sweet thing," she told him, leaning back on her hands. "It fooled me, too."

It did not do much for him, but he nodded quietly anyway.

It was not much longer before Hawke and Anders awoke. Hawke stretched, catlike and satisfied, a pleased smile curving her lips. Anders, however, jerked upright quickly, and Fenris heard a loud _thunk_ that sounded like he hit his head on the ceiling. The following groan confirmed that suspicion, as well as Isabela's amused cackle.

 _"Ow -_ stop laughing!"

"It's funny," was Isabela's simple excuse. She dropped down from the top bunk, stretching and joining Hawke as they filed out of the room. "So how'd it go?"

Fenris tuned out. He wanted to hear no more of the Fade or its happenings, nor the fate of the demon or the mage. He wanted out, to drink away his stress, to forget all about this before guilt ate him away. He could feel Anders' eyes on him, scrutinizing, judging, and the urge to leave grew stronger, almost overpowering.

So he excused himself, shoving a few sovereigns into Arianni's hands to repay her for the glass before all but running from the hovel into the darkening Lowtown streets.

* * *

"Not you, too," Hawke whined, tugging persistently on Anders' sleeve. He tried hard not to wince at the jostling of his bandages. "You're done already?"

"You're not?" Anders replied, incredulous. Having Justice take control in the Fade like that was more than a little unsettling, and both Isabela and Fenris - especially Fenris - had seem just as shaken by the adventure. But Hawke was ever on her toes, pouting before him and raring to go.

"You know me," Hawke told him, reluctantly bringing her hands back to herself. "Have to keep busy all the time. You're sure you won't keep up a little longer? Fenris already ditched me."

"Sorry, Hawke. I'm beat. Next time?"

Her pout did not fade, but she relented, "Next time."

Anders would have found a way out, regardless, but it was always easier when Hawke simply let him go. Even Isabela was relieved to call it a day, joining Anders on the trek out of the Alienage. He had an elf to go find. He had seen how uncomfortable the whole ordeal had made Fenris, and after watching him succumb to the demon, Anders knew they should talk.

He knew Fenris would need to talk.

Anders yawned, only half-feigning tiredness. Justice was not so tactful with his magic, and while the feats he could pull off were impressive, they left Anders feeling terribly drained afterward. (Justice bristled a little at the criticism, but Anders ignored it.) Still, he needed to find Fenris, so he would not be seeing his bed for a while.

"I need a drink after all that," Isabela sighed, linking arms with Anders. He hummed in agreement, hardly listening.

"It wasn't exactly fun, no."

"You should drink with me," she prompted, cocking her head to emphasize the request. Anders blinked and peered down at her. "I'm sure you could use it, too."

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you how much Justice would hate that," Anders replied, and the spirit in his head nodded its agreement. Besides, he was on a mission. But Isabela pouted - she and Hawke were really so similar sometimes - and tugged him in the direction of the Hanged Man.

"It's his fault you're stressed out," she pointed out, reading him like an open book, and Justice had the nerve to bristle incredulously. "So he can shut up about one night of drinking. Please?"

There was something further to her request - Isabela wanted company after the Fade fiasco, he realized. Real company, not the bed company that was more typical of her. Anders weighed his options; Fenris was likely back at home, and would not be going anywhere for a fair while if he was. Surely he could spend some time with Isabela, give her peace of mind, and then go looking for Fenris? He was a grown elf, after all, and could surely handle himself for a bit.

And he most certainly could use a drink, whatever Justice said.

"Alright," he gave in, and Isabela paused. Justice's presence in his head recoiled, started up complaints of **_there are far better things we could be doing,_** but Anders pointedly pushed him away.

"Wait, really?"

"Sure, why not?" He marched them toward the door, elbows still linked. "Everyone needs a night off sometimes, and Maker knows all this adventuring with Hawke put enough coin in my pocket."

Isabela's lips curved into a wide, catlike grin, and she steered them inside and toward the bar. "Now you're talking!"

She hailed Corff as they settled onto barstools, ordering them some nice ale - not top shelf, but definitely not bottom, either. Despite Anders' efforts to rebel against Justice, he still only took measured sips, and watched in wonder as Isabela threw back her first mug like her life depended on it. _Must be the pirate in her,_ he thought, amused, as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"How ladylike," he commented, eyebrow quirked, and Isabela rolled her eyes and signalled to Corff for a refill.

"Gotta wash away all that Fade shit somehow," she replied, resting her chin on her hand. She shuddered, and took a large gulp of her refilled ale, then shook her head. "Maker, that was _awful._ Is that what it's like?"

"What do you mean?" Anders asked her, trying hard not to jump on the defensive as apprehension curdled in his gut. He was pretty sure he knew what she meant. He only hoped she knew that what she had experienced and what Anders had done to himself was different.

Isabela shook her head again, paused, and took another swig for good measure. It reminded Anders not to neglect his own drink.

"Like . . . "

She hesitated. He knew she was not the genuine type. She rolled with the punches, joked, got over it quick and bottled it up if she did not. Isabela was not a 'talk out your feelings' kind of person. But her eyebrows did not unfurrow, and eventually, she spoke again.

"That demon didn't even say anything particularly pretty," she told him, sounding strained. "I keep up these adventures with Hawke, and I'll have money enough to get my own ship and hire my own crew. I don't know why I said yes. It's not like what I want is some outlandish dream. I did it once, I can do it again." Anders could hear the strength it took to keep the fear out of her voice. "It's - it's like it could have promised me two coppers to rub together, and I still would've said yes."

"It's the demon's influence," Anders replied, peering down into his mug. "Anyone who thinks they wouldn't cheat to make a deal is a fool. They'll use whatever tricks they think they need to imprison and use us. It's . . . not always so simple as saying no." He remembered to sip his ale, and it calmed nerves he had not realized were agitated. "That's why mages have to train so much. We have to protect our minds against magic that would manipulate us. If it were just words, there would be a lot more abominations running around."

Isabela nodded, but she did not look very relieved. Anders supposed it took more than saying _you were under a demon's control_ to take the guilt from her shoulders. The pirate downed the rest of her ale and stared at the empty mug, frown deep.

"I . . . I watched myself hurt you and Hawke." Her fingers closed tightly around the mug. "I couldn't do anything about it. All I could do was sit there and watch my body try to kill you and - and just - pray you cut me down. Is - Is that what it's like? For you? Watching your body become a puppet to something else's whims?"

Anders' shoulders tensed. He hated hearing the fear, the _pity_ in her words. Of course it was terrifying for her - she had succumbed to a demon, but Anders had not. He did not want her pity over something he had willingly done. But Isabela was afraid, and Anders could not be angry; instead, he patted her elbow sympathetically, hoping it helped somewhat.

"Sometimes," Anders replied honestly, and Isabela looked repulsed by the idea. "But I asked for it. Justice and I are on the same page. He doesn't steal my autonomy from me, nor does he do anything I don't approve of." He hesitated, remembering with a pang the girl in the Gallows, then admitted, "For the most part."

Isabela knew of what he spoke. She returned the sympathetic pat. "He hasn't hurt anyone he's not supposed to yet," she said, and it was a greater comfort than Anders could have ever anticipated. Isabela's grip tightened, however, and her gaze sharpened. "Hey, you. Stick-in-the-mud. I know you're listening. You do anything fucked up wearing Anders' meatsuit, and you answer to me, got it?"

Anders could not help it; he laughed past the righteous indignation Justice expressed. **_Why are you amused?_** his spirit demanded, bemused, but Anders could only snort into his mug. **_And who is she to tell me how to perform my duties?_** But Anders ignored him.

 _"Meatsuit,"_ he repeated. Maybe it was the alcohol making his mind fuzzy, but it was far funnier than it had any right to be. "Don't say it like that!"

"Flesh sack?"

"Isabela!" Corff was refilling his mug without his even asking, and Justice was too busy being ruffled to complain. "That's worse!"

"What?" Her ale was topped off, as well, and she grinned over the rim of her mug. "I love me some flesh sacks. Dangly, wrinkly ones - "

"I am _not_ listening to this," Anders interrupted. A pause, and then - "Are you seriously comparing me to - ?!"

"You said it, not me," Isabela snickered childishly.

Their laughter faded into comfortable silence, Justice even simmering into a quiet, haughty presence in the back of his mind. He complained very little as Anders continued to drink, seemingly accepting his defeat, but every sip did bring another small, almost unnoticeable jolt of disapproval from the spirit. Sensing their conversation was over, Anders turned in his seat to survey the bar.

As expected, there were several city guards around, grabbing a drink after - or before - their shifts. No templars, thank the Maker, as most of them had taken vows against such pleasures. The workers of Lowtown gathered and chatted, toasting every other minute, and Norah weaved between them, taking orders and swatting men that got too close.

 _ **The elf,** _Justice piped up suddenly.

 _Who?_ Anders thought back idly, sipping his ale. Justice sighed pointedly, but the buzz was great enough that Anders felt immune to his disappointment.

 ** _In the corner._**

In a dark corner Anders had overlooked, he spotted him. All spikes and black leather and snowy white hair, Fenris sat as far back from the hustle and bustle of the tavern as possible, warming an empty mug between his palms. Surprise rippled through Anders' tipsy haze, and with a start he realized just how lucky he was - would he have even known to look for Fenris here had Isabela not dragged him into a drink?

 _Seems drinking wasn't as bad an idea as you thought,_ Anders thought smugly. Justice did not reply.

Isabela spotted Fenris at the same time, and, of course, spotted Anders _looking at_ Fenris. Her lips curved into a wide smirk. Any other time, Anders might have sighed exasperatedly at the questioning he knew was coming, but the alcohol did wonders to numb his irritation.

"So," she drawled, dragging the word out suggestively. "You and Fenris."

"What about it?" Anders asked her simply, tossing no bones. They held eye contact, each daring the other to push, before Isabela spoke again.

"Don't think nobody's noticed you two spending nights together," she purred. "Something you should tell us?"

A more sober Anders might have expelled his ale through his nose, but as it were, Anders took a calm sip. "Fenris has a knack for helping people," he answered easily. "He's helpful to have around the clinic."

 _"Helping_ people," Isabela repeated, waggling her eyebrows. "Like you?"

"Isabela!" Anders admonished, putting an affronted hand on his chest. "That's scandalous!"

"The runaway apostate and the mage-hating runaway slave, bumping uglies - "

 _"Isabela!"_

She threw her head back and laughed. Perhaps a sober Anders would have been embarrassed, maybe even disgusted, but he just grinned back and drained his mug.

"So are you gonna go say hi or what?"

Anders shrugged. He supposed he had been planning on visiting, anyway. "Why not?"

She seemed a little surprised at his ease, but shrugged and did not comment on it. "I'm glad you two are getting along," she said instead. "Lot easier for the rest of us when you're not at each other's throats."

"Thanks," Anders snorted.

He ordered an extra mug of ale from Corff, setting a handful of sovereigns on the table for their drinks. Isabela waved him off, offering a pat on the arm for good luck, and he stood and made a beeline for the corner table.

Fenris did not look up as he approached, seemingly lost in his thoughts, still peering down at the empty mug. Anders set a new, full one down in front of him, the foam sloshing precariously inside, and the elf finally glanced up at him, startled.

"Mage?"

"Here," Anders said, taking the seat across from him. "Probably better than whatever swill you were drinking."

"I do not want - "

"Don't try me, Fenris," Anders interrupted, leaning back casually and taking a long draw from his ale. "We've all had a shit night."

Fenris frowned, but did not resist for very long. His fingers curled around the new mug, and he drank slowly from it, visibly relaxing. They drank in silence, and Anders expected it to remain that way; Fenris, like Isabela, was not the talky, feely type, and Anders doubted even more that he would want to speak if his experience was anything like Isabela's - which it likely was.

"I . . . " Anders blinked up at him, cocking his head, as Fenris fingers tightened around the cup. "I cannot believe I fell victim so easily."

Anders could only shrug. Some part of him wondered if he should not feel smug, victorious, even, now that Fenris knew what it was like, but the troubled shadow over those pretty green eyes and the hunch of his shoulders were just too pitiful to claim victory over.

"Not as cut and dry as you thought, huh?" Anders responded, crossing his ankle over his knee casually, and Fenris only seemed to hunch further in on himself. Hurriedly, Anders continued, "Ah, well. It happens. We killed the demon, so no harm done."

Fenris did not seem altogether convinced, but he did finally meet Anders' eyes once more. Anders was struck unsure as to whether he should keep talking, and if he should, what should he even say? So instead, they stared at one another for a long moment, until Fenris finally spoke.

"You are remarkably stronger than you're given credit," he said, gaze falling back down to his mug. Anders scoffed a bit, amused.

"Than _you_ give me credit for, you mean."

To his surprise, Fenris nodded. "Yes. You face this daily." He paused, swirling his mug's contents. "I . . . did not quite understand what it was like, before." He dared to look back up at Anders, their eyes meeting. "I apologize."

The tone he used, dripping with honesty, and the searching look he used had an unexpected flush crawling up Anders' neck. This was what he always wanted, was it not? Fenris admitting he was wrong and apologizing? But the way he went about it, so unsure of himself, _vulnerable,_ even, made it hard to celebrate. The idea of rubbing his victory in his rival's face was abhorrent, now.

Instead, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, he said, "Oh, shut up and drink, elf. You need it."

Fenris did not argue.


	9. Chapter 9

**i'm just gonna apologize profusely in advance for the gratuitous amounts of in-game dialogue**

* * *

"Where is he?!"

"Please don't kill me!"

Anders winced as the slaver's head cracked sickeningly against the hard, rocky ground. Fenris growled, lips pulled back into a deep scowl, animalistic in his rage.

 _"Tell me!"_

"I don't know!" the enemy mage pleaded, blood gushing from his nose. "I don't know, I swear!"

Another displeased growl tore from Fenris' lips, and those clawed gauntlets tightened in his victim's hair, eliciting a pathetic whimper. It was hard to watch, but Anders was not about to step between them. **_He is within his rights,_** Justice hummed in his head, and the healer agreed wholeheartedly, even if it was a nasty sight. Fenris was not one to shy away from gore.

"Hadriana brought us!" the slaver said hurriedly, seconds before Fenris beat his face into a bloody pulp. "She's at the holding caves north of the city. I can show you the way!"

"No need," Fenris ground out, grip loosening somewhat, but not enough to free the man. "I know which ones you speak of."

"Then let me go, I beg you! I swear I won't - "

But Fenris was finished listening. In one swift motion, the last slaver's neck was snapped, a small mercy granted for his information.

Fenris rose slowly, clenching his bloodied gauntlets into fists, and spat out in a hiss overflowing with derision, _"Hadriana."_ His shoulders were tense, muscles even more wound than usual. "I was a fool to think they would let me be!"

"Just a shot in the dark here," Hawke drawled, crouching down to rifle shamelessly through the slave hunter's pockets for anything sellable, "but I'm guessing that name means something?"

"My old master's apprentice," Fenris answered. He finally turned to face the rest of the party, and though he instinctively recoiled, Anders was not surprised by the intensity of his glare. "If she's here, it's at _his_ bidding."

That sparked Justice's attention, the prospect of ridding the world of more slavers a very attractive option for spending their afternoon, and Anders was certainly very interested in paying the monsters from Fenris' past a visit. Merrill, too, beside him, tightened her grip around her staff, and when Hawke straightened up once more, they could all see the ice in her eyes.

"Then it looks like we have some hunting to do," she hummed, twirling one of her daggers nonchalantly. "Lead the way, Fenris."

They walked in silence, Hawke, for once, allowing another to take the lead. Fenris stalked his way through the Wounded Coast with purpose, hands never once unclenching from where they were curled into fists, his clawed fingertips digging into his palms. Apprehension rippled through the party at the sudden and grim turn their day had taken, and Anders mentally prepared himself for the undoubtedly grueling battles to come.

Curiosity pricked at Anders; Fenris had never once mentioned this Hadriana, but her presence seemed to agitate him nearly as much as the prior possibility of Danarius. He clearly held much loathing for the woman, but who was she? What had she done to him that raised her to that monster's level?

 ** _You could not simply ask?_**

 _Are you even looking at him?_ Anders' eyes roved over Fenris' threatening posture, and he barely refrained from shaking his head firmly for emphasis. _He'd probably rip my head off for just breathing at him wrong. Maybe later._

Justice hesitated, as though debating whether or not to argue that decision, but he remained silent. Anders was glad he did not push. He wanted vengeance for Fenris, too, but attempting to drag information from the elf - and therefore subjecting him to memories that were probably painful and possibly still fresh - would be far from doing him justice.

But he would need a friend, after. Perhaps then.

* * *

"So I have your word? I tell you, and you let me go?"

"Yes," Fenris said, tone an eerie calm Anders had never heard before. He knew instantly it was a lie; Anders' hands tightened on his staff and he swallowed, dread hanging over him as Fenris continued, "You have my word."

"Her name is Varania." Hadriana spoke quickly, encouraged by his promise of mercy. Guilt pooled in Anders' gut. "She is in Qarinus, serving a magister by the name of Ahriman."

"A servant," Fenris echoed, a faint, almost unnoticeable note of wonder in his tone. "Not a slave."

"She's not a slave," Hadriana confirmed, eyes wide and hopeful. Fenris stared down at her, expression inscrutable.

"I believe you."

Anders winced as Fenris plunged his hand into Hadriana's chest. The magister could only utter a terrible, dying gasp, before flopping back to the cold stone with a disgusting wet noise as blood flowed from her corpse and Fenris pulled his fist back from her flesh. Merrill made a small noise of distress beside him as Fenris' clawed gauntlets dug into the bloody mess that was Hadriana's still-warm heart. He seemed to study it a moment, lips pulled back in a scowl, before he let it fall carelessly to the hard ground with a wet slap. He turned away from his dead tormenter and made for the exit.

"We are done here," he growled.

The air hung thick and heavy with tension. Merrill was practically folded in on herself, unable to look at Fenris, and Hawke shared a troubled look with the healer. He knew what she was asking - should they leave him be? Anders shrugged helplessly, and Hawke looked to Fenris' retreating back.

"Fenris," the rogue offered hesitantly, "do you want to talk about it?"

"No, I don't want to talk about it!" Fenris snarled furiously, rounding on her. He approached Hawke with long strides until they were only inches apart, and for once she actually seemed a smidge intimidated by him. "This could be a trap! Danarius could have sent her here just to tell me about this 'sister,' and even if he didn't, trying to find her would still be suicide! Danarius has to know about her, and he has to know that Hadriana knows!"

He paused, caught his breath, and seemed to regain his senses. He growled, shook his head, and stepped back from Hawke, glaring down at his bloody gauntlet.

"But all that matters is that I got to crush that bitch's heart. May she rot," Fenris ground out, clenching his hand into a fist, "and all other mages with her."

Merrill flinched as though struck, and discomfort curled in Anders' stomach. They were words said out of anger, of unchecked rage, of years, possibly decades of hurt. He could not judge Fenris for heated words said in a moment of weakness. But they still hurt, as though those clawed fingertips were tugging at his own heart.

As though those past nights spent together at the clinic changed nothing for Fenris.

"You know damn well they're not all like your magisters," Hawke replied, voice dangerously low and ice blue eyes flashing, one of the first times Anders had ever heard her truly speak up for mages. But Fenris only curled his upper lip into a sneer, spreading out his arms.

"And who should be our shining example?" he asked mockingly. "Merrill? _Anders?"_

"I would never sacrifice innocents!"

"How about my _sister,_ asshole?!"

But Anders was not listening to the spat that broke out. He could not muster his own venomous retort or indignant defense; all that he could bring himself to feel was a resounding betrayal that he determinedly beat down. Of course Fenris had not changed his mind. How could he? Being kind to Anders was, at best, a slip in judgment, a moment in which he forgot about the fact he was a mage. Perhaps it had only been the favor to Hawke that compelled him to remain civil. Worse, pity.

"You saw what was done here," Fenris spat bitterly. "There's always going to be some reason, some excuse why mages need to do this! Even if I found my sister, who knows what the magisters have done to her? What has magic touched that it doesn't spoil?"

And then their eyes met over Hawke's shoulder. For several long, painful moments, Fenris' eyes remained hardened, furious, unapologetic - but then, for a second that passed so fast Anders thought he may have imagined it, his anger wavered, something else, something fleeting crossing his features. The elf turned away suddenly.

"I . . . need to go."

And then he was gone, walking determinedly away despite Hawke's protests, and Anders stared at his retreating back with a cold emptiness overtaking him, threatening to swallow him whole.

* * *

 _Grotesque, discolored faces. Snarls and growls made with the tattered remains of rotting vocal folds. The horde milled about aimlessly, and he was one of them, groaning and walking around with no clear goal, no obvious intent. His bones creaked and complained at every movement, but he hardly felt his body, could hardly even think. What was he here for? What were they_ doing?

 _As though sensing his doubts, heads began turn his way. Rotting, sharpened teeth bared at him, rancid breath washing over his senses and leaving nausea behind. He was an outsider. It was clear now. They knew._ _As one, they surged toward him, weapons raised and snarls turning to roars. He tried to flee, but his weak, rotting legs could not carry him far, and the beasts were closing in. No escape._

 _A gurgling scream that sounded nothing like himself tore from his throat as a blade flew at his neck._

* * *

"- ders. Anders!"

Anders surged upward, gasping for air. His chair clattered behind him, tossed aside as he stood suddenly, his hands clutching at his neck where, just seconds before, he had felt cold metal slice through his flesh. His chest heaved, breathing coming hard as his lungs simply refused to hold air, constantly demanding more.

The blood pounding in his ears seemed so deafening when he expected silence. Breathing in felt like it scorched his throat, and his heart stuttered along so quickly and yet so weakly he felt it would give out at any second. He was supposed to be dead. Why wasn't he dead?

"Anders," came that voice again, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand rested on his arm.

He turned sharply, Justice rising from the depths of his mind on the offensive, drawn by his panic. Magic radiated from his palms, and he felt Justice ready to jump into action to defend him. For once, Anders felt scared enough to let him.

Fenris' hand was on the grip of his broadsword, still sheathed, as his other hand was held out in a placating manner. Breathing still ragged, Anders took in the sight of the elf, pale-faced and wide-eyed, and realized the glowing blue fissures in his skin that Justice's power brought were alight. No wonder Fenris looked so scared. And yet, somehow, he had not yet lopped the mage's head off -

"Breathe," Fenris urged him quietly.

His hand slowly retreated from his sword's hilt, the other moving to rest gently on Anders' forearm. They stood there for what felt like ages, until finally, the magic dissipated from Anders' skin and palms. Fenris visibly relaxed at its absence. As Anders worked to slow his breathing, Fenris righted his desk chair, tucking it neatly under the desk.

And as Anders calmed, he remembered his anger.

"What are you doing here?" he croaked, swallowing hard as his voice tried to crack. He could really use some water. Still, it did not soften the blow, and Fenris' hands tightened on the back of the wooden chair.

"I . . . came to apologize."

"It's been two weeks," Anders replied, voice hard, less agonizing, and Fenris flinched. The mage crossed his arms and tried to catch the elf's eye, but Fenris was staring determinedly down at the faded wood of the desk. "I'm not sure I want to hear anything you have to say."

Fenris opened his mouth, closed it, and seemed to consider his words carefully. "That's fair," he replied. "I needed time, but . . . I should have at least told you that much."

Surprised by his honesty, Anders found it hard to remain bitter - but not impossible. He would not forget those scathing words from before so easily. "Yes, you should've." Fenris winced once more, so he added, a tad more gentle, "All you had to do was ask for space."

"I was too busy being angry," Fenris scoffed. He finally turned to face Anders once more, though his gaze was still averted. "By the time I had calmed, it felt too late to try to explain myself."

"Is this not later still?" Anders asked, quirking an eyebrow, and his tone earned a small snort.

"It is," he agreed. "It's selfish of me to come back and try anyway. I only ask you hear me out. You do not have to forgive me."

His earnest tone was weakening Anders' defenses, his troubled expression softening the healer's anger, and he already knew that so long as Fenris said nothing hurtful he would probably forgive him anyway. So Anders rested against the edge of the desk and waved a hand at the elf, gesturing for him to speak. Fenris nodded silently, pausing before launching into talking.

"First and foremost, I am here to apologize," he said, finally, _finally_ meeting Anders' gaze. It felt like such a victory, even with the guilt in those pretty green eyes. "I'm sorry. I want to say I was not myself in the moment, but I am not sure that would make it better. Still, I regret any harm my careless words may have caused you."

Anders had no real response. The honesty and remorse in his tone were so painfully genuine that Anders could only muster a faint flush. "Apology accepted," he muttered. "Heat of the moment, and all that." Fenris eyed him a moment, and Anders prayed he did not question his blush. Thankfully, he continued.

"I cannot claim to be supportive of mages," Fenris went on, gaze averting back to his feet. "I cannot lie and say I no longer fear magic or find myself wary of any mage I meet."

"Reassuring," Anders snorted.

"But I have been trying," Fenris pressed on, ignoring the jibe. "I have been doing my best to look past the magic - and the demon, as mad as it is say that - to the person underneath. While Anders the mage was someone I thought was better off locked away from the world lest he damage it, Anders the man is . . . a good man. A man that helps others at no small cost to himself and asks for nothing in return. And were a man like that locked away, surely the world would suffer. The people here certainly would.

"But in my anger, I chose to ignore all that. I was too consumed by hatred to think of anything else. I did not _want_ to think of anything else. I did not want to consider you in your clinic, helping anyone that may need it. I did not want to think about Bethany, who denied herself freedom to protect her family. Even Merrill," he added, surprising Anders, "feeding strays in the alienage, is more than simply a mage. And I chose to forget that so I could hate mages even more.

"It was wrong of me. I do not wish to destroy what progress I . . . what progress _we_ have made. So if you would have me, I would like to start coming back to the clinic, to . . . help . . . "

He faltered as Anders started to snicker, looking helpless. The healer pressed his palms to his eyes, shoulders still shaking with mirth even as he tried to suppress it. Fenris stared at him, silent now, until Anders resurfaced with a small smile.

"If you were just going to ask to come back, you didn't have to butter me up, you know," he teased. "I can always use more hands around the clinic."

Fenris frowned, crossing his arms self-consciously. "I - I thought I made it clear that there was more to it than that."

Seeing his discomfort, Anders softened, patting the elf's shoulder. "I get it, Fenris. I don't mean to brush off everything you've said. I don't think I can take much more seriousness tonight, though, so let's just move on, yeah? I'm not ignoring the rest, but I don't really want to linger much longer on how you passionately declared mages should rot."

Fenris nodded, but he did not look convinced. His frown only deepened at the last sentence, and Anders inwardly winced, guilt overcoming him at the idea that he had triggered Fenris' own guilt. His next words only confirmed it.

"It troubles me that I went that far," Fenris admitted. "I may be no friend to mages, but I do not loathe them so intensely as to wish death upon them. I know the memories and feelings associated with my past were a heavy influence, but I thought - " He paused, swallowed. "I thought I was over it. Not enough to forget my hatred for Danarius, but certainly enough to not lash out angrily and project that hatred onto other people."

Empathy overcame Anders then, and he sighed. "Fenris - "

"I should be over this," Fenris insisted. "I have been able to pursue a relatively enjoyable life away from my old one. I did not even feel the rage until Hadriana was dead. It was _over._ I shouldn't have been so upset. So why - ?"

"Fenris," Anders repeated, exasperated, and rested his hand over the elf's where it remained tightly gripping the chair. Fenris looked up at him, gaze troubled, and a sort of fondness overcame Anders then, making him pat Fenris' hand gently. "It's not about the severity of our trauma, what triggers our trauma, or how long it's been since we dealt with our trauma. It's how it affects us personally that matters."

"But - " Fenris tried to interrupt passionately, but Anders did not let him.

"Someone who drowns in a foot of water is just as dead as someone who drowns in ten feet," Anders told him. Fenris was still frowning at him, but something thoughtful wormed into the crease of his brow. "But you've recognized you have a problem coping, so now we can work on it, and maybe next time you won't be so eager to lump your friends in with the same crowd that destroyed your life."

"Friends?" Fenris echoed, eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline, and Anders faltered. He quickly withdrew his hand, realizing it still lay on Fenris', and looked away uncertainly.

"If you want to be friends, I mean," Anders muttered, feeling his cheeks heat.

"Friends," Fenris repeated. Anders glanced back at him to find the elf nodding. "Yes, we are friends."

Fenris finally smiled at him again, and Anders could not help but return it. Friends, huh? If someone had told him years ago that he and Fenris would be friends, he would have laughed them right out of the room. Now, well . . .

"Great," Anders managed past the pleased surprise, unsure what else to say, but Fenris did not seem to mind. Wordlessly, he started to organize the mess that Anders' desk had become in the last two weeks, a silent apology, acceptance, thanks.

. . . people change.


	10. Chapter 10

**I know there's a debate as to whether magical ice can melt, and I'm choosing to go with "yes" to make my life a million times easier. Or at least, that magic fire can melt magic ice.**

* * *

"When did these happen?"

Anders flinched, drawing his arm away from Fenris' grasp. The elf let him, a frown creasing his brow as Anders shook his sleeve back over his forearm.

"It doesn't matter," Anders muttered, averting his eyes.

He stepped away from the basin of water, subconsciously bringing his arm up to his chest and rubbing over his sleeve where the healing cuts were. They were not angry or red, Fenris had noted, clearly not new, but definitely more recent than the last ones he remembered. They seemed to vary in lifespan, in fact, as though Anders had taken the blade to his skin more than once in his absence.

"Mage," Fenris pushed as Anders retreated to his desk, "this is not something to be idly brushed aside."

"I don't do it idly," Anders replied, sounding as though every word was a great weight on his shoulders. Fenris paused, baffled by the answer.

"Regardless," he continued slowly, "you continue to hurt yourself, and I do not think it is a good idea to ignore it." The healer sighed, and Fenris' frown deepened. "We are friends, aren't we? Do friends not share their troubles with one another?"

Anders slumped in his seat, and Fenris feared he had pushed too much when the mage dropped his head in his hands, but to his surprise, Anders spoke once more. Unfortunately, it was not much more insightful than what he had already said.

"Look, it - it was stupid. I did it for a foolish reason. I really don't think it's a good idea to talk about them."

"Is there any reason that isn't foolish?" Fenris countered, crossing his arms. "That is simply the nature of these things. Isn't that what you told me?"

Fenris internally rejoiced at the small smile that crossed Anders' lips, but it was gone as soon as it came. Anders' hands moved from his cheeks to pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as he sighed tiredly. "It's just going to upset you, Fenris."

The words gave him pause. _Upset_ me? _Why?_ He knew asking would herald no straight answers, only evasion, so instead he turned to his own deduction skills for answers. They were not hard to find, but of course he would rather get them from Anders' own mouth. There was a saying about assumptions, one Fenris did not wish to buy into, but he had little choice.

Self harm while Fenris was not around, conveniently after he had so violently disowned mages? After he had so venomously insinuated that the healer - his _friend -_ was a terrible person?

Horror curdled in Fenris' gut, icy and sharp, rising to his chest and into his throat as he blurted, "It is my fault."

Anders jerked as though Fenris had struck him. His stare fixed quickly on the elf, distress scrawled all over his features at the guilt Fenris knew showed on his own face. "Maker, Fenris, _no!_ It's not your fault, I told you it was stupid - "

"I was careless," Fenris interrupted, clenching his hands into fists. He could see the wounds in his mind, still, could picture Anders making each slice, could imagine the bitter tears in his eyes. "Had I not said such horrible things, you wouldn't have . . . "

"Fenris, it's over," Anders insisted, standing and reaching out to him. He felt the weight of the mage's hands on his shoulders. "It's done with. You already apologized, alright? It's my fault for taking it so personally."

"It is _not_ your fault," Fenris bit out immediately, recoiling at the thought. He did not deserve the condolences. "You are unwell. You cannot control how words impact you. I _targeted you,_ Anders."

He fought hard against the crack in his voice, but the painful self-hatred that welled up in his throat was stronger. He squeezed his eyes shut, no longer able to meet the concerned hazel ones watching him, soft and forgiving.

"I knew they would hurt you. I said them _because_ they would hurt you, and they did exactly that - Anders, I - "

 _"You_ were hurting," Anders interrupted him, voice gentle. "You wanted someone else to hurt, to get some semblance of control. Right?" The words pierced right through him, ringing too true and leaving him feeling exposed. "And I was an easy target. People say terrible things when they're hurt, Fenris."

"That doesn't make it okay," Fenris ground out, and Anders' hands on his shoulders gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "You loathe yourself enough without my help."

"No, it doesn't," Anders agreed softly. "It doesn't make it okay. I'm not pretending it didn't hurt me, Fenris. It clearly did." Fenris winced, and Anders sighed. "But you truly regret it, right?"

Fenris exhaled sharply, chest feeling as though it was about to burst. "I do."

A hand touched his cheek, gentle and coaxing, and Fenris hesitantly opened his eyes to meet Anders'. The healer smiled at him.

"Then I forgive you," he said simply.

They stood there for what felt like an eternity, staring at one another as Fenris' emotions warred with one another in his chest, violent and insistent and making it hard to breathe. He had hurt Anders. He was already a terrible friend. How terrible had Anders felt? What horrible things had the healer told himself, empowered by Fenris' spoken venom, as he brought the blade across his flesh?

But Anders was not angry with him, somehow no longer upset - Anders _forgave_ him. So soon, so easily, as though Fenris had not committed a terrible wrong. How could the mage be so hard on himself and yet so gentle with others?

"I will not be so cruel again," he promised, and Anders snorted quietly, amusement laced in his words.

"I'll hold you to that," he threatened good-naturedly.

Fenris nodded, more to himself than in answer, and his attention was drawn to the hand still on his cheek. Thoughts apparently synonymous, Anders quickly withdrew his hand, face flushing as bright as Fenris' own warmed cheeks felt, embarrassment heating the air between him.

"Ah - sorry - "

"It's alright," Fenris muttered, certain his ears were pink.

"But personal space, and all that - it's a bit of a strange gesture between friends - "

Fenris silenced his babbling with a hand over his mouth, eyebrows quirking upward in amusement. "We're both strange," he pointed out, a smile curving his lips. "I believe our friendship is allowed to be similarly odd."

Anders peered at him, expression a mix of so many things it was impossible to decipher. The silence dragged on until Fenris had the sense to remember to draw his hand away, and in his embarrassment only flushed brighter. Anders started to laugh, lips pressed together as he tried hard to keep it in, and Fenris followed with his own amused snort.

"Maybe you're right," Anders agreed, voice light.

If Fenris' heart fluttered a little at the sight of his carefree smile, he ignored it.

* * *

"What a doozy," Hawke sighed as she rummaged through a crate. Anders snorted, leaning on his staff.

"That's putting it lightly," he muttered, glancing back behind them. Down the short steps and across the room, the viscount was overseeing the careful loading of the fallen Qunari onto stretchers by the city guard.

"Maker, this whole Qunari thing is getting out of hand," Hawke grumbled agreement. She suddenly perked up, face brightening at her spoils. "Oh - what a lovely shield! I bet Aveline would love this!"

Fenris and Anders exchanged amused glances. If Hawke thought she would love it, then Aveline would probably loathe it. That was simply how all of Hawke's attempts at gift-giving went.

Isabela caught their silent exchange, and looped her arm around Fenris' shoulders, an interested gleam in her eyes as Hawke started to lead them out of the dirty hovel Ser Varnell had been using for his twisted rally.

"You two have gotten quite chummy, haven't you?" she mused, eyes flicking between them, showing no small amount interest. "Anders' magic fingers finally draw you in, then?"

"And if they did?" Fenris countered idly, feeling bold, and smirked when Isabela's jaw dropped. Anders scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"As if," the healer snorted, and sighed when Isabela pouted, disappointed. "At any rate, we don't want to kill each other anymore. Usually."

"Usually," Fenris agreed, pleased at the smile it put on Anders' face. "Sometimes I find my hands itching toward his throat and have to sternly tell them 'no.'"

"Thanks," Anders said in a very thankless tone, snickering at the back and forth of Isabela's head as she tried to keep up with them. But she was not to be discouraged so easily, and a catlike grin crossed her face.

"Sure," she drawled. "You two have been spending every night together, alone, cozying up to each other like this, and _nothing_ has happened."

"Nope," Anders replied easily as Fenris shook his head. "Nothing."

"Yet," Isabela promised, predatory look unwavering, and just like that Fenris felt his confidence waver ever so slightly. "Trust me, Fen, once you get a taste of Anders, you'll want more." She winked. "I would know. Ask him to do that sparky thing with his fingers, you'll love it."

"A . . . taste?" Fenris echoed, bemused, at the same time as Anders squawked, _"Isabela!"_

Cackling, the pirate danced away, linking her arms with Hawke and immediately leaning over to whisper in her ear. Gossiping about them, no doubt. Fenris realized all too suddenly how hot his ears were, and he cleared his throat, fighting the urge to rub awkwardly at his neck.

"She is _such_ a menace," Anders grumbled for him, and Fenris glanced over at the healer to see red crawling up his neck. "Ugh! She can talk about her own exploits all she wants, but leave me out of it!"

"Sparky thing?" Fenris prompted, and was increasingly amused at how the red rose even higher to Anders' cheeks.

"You're just as bad as her!"

Their little party resurfaced in Darktown, not too far from the clinic. Fenris saw Anders shudder; it was admittedly very unsettling to discover that a rogue crazed templar with a friend inside the Chantry had been holed up so close to where the healer lay his head every night. Fenris made a mental note to double check the locks every night.

They all went their separate ways, Hawke on her way to speak with the Arishok, Isabela giving some shoddy excuse and undoubtedly slinking off to the Hanged Man, and Fenris accompanying Anders as he returned to the clinic. The healer gave him a curious look, but did not question him until they were inside after he had lit the lantern.

"Something you need, Fenris?"

It was uncommon that Fenris lingered in the daytime, yes, usually out adventuring with Hawke or otherwise opting to stay home. But he was antsy after the encounter with Varnell and, admittedly, uncomfortable leaving the healer alone knowing the zealots had been so close. It felt like too much to admit that, however, so the elf shrugged.

"I have little else to do," he only half-lied.

"Hm," Anders hummed noncommittally, seating himself at his desk and reaching for his mortar and pestle. "Well, I'm afraid there's not much more to do here. I suppose the blankets could use a washing?"

Glad to give his itching fingers some task to perform, Fenris nodded and fetched the empty wooden washbasin from where it sat stacked among said used blankets. He brought it back to Anders, who cracked his fingers before bringing his hands over it. Fenris watched, intrigued, as with fire in one hand and ice in the other, Anders produced a steady stream of warm water that slowly filled the basin.

"I was under the impression magic ice could not be melted," Fenris commented as the healer finished up, patting his wet hands on his robes to dry them.

"Usually not," Anders responded, turning back to the desk and reaching for a bundle of elfroot he had purchased before Hawke had dragged them off on their adventure. "But just as magic ice doesn't follow the rules, neither does magefire."

Fenris only nodded in reply, satisfied with the answer. He fetched the dirty blankets and brought them back to the washbasin, pulling off his gauntlets before accepting the bar of soap Anders offered him.

"Oh - and be delicate with them. They're barely holding on as is."

"Why do you not replace them?" Fenris asked as he went to work, carefully dousing the first blanket and rubbing soap into its threads. "You go on the same jobs as I, so I know it is not about money at this point. You have plenty to spare."

Anders sighed as he crushed the leaves in the small bowl. "Nobody sells blankets," he replied, shoulders drooping. "Sometimes the travelers have fabrics, but they're only ever fine silks, nothing good to make into blankets. And I'm no good at knitting. If I knew someone who could make them, I'd gladly pay, but, well, you can guess how that's turned out so far."

 _I can guess,_ Fenris agreed silently as he wrung out the first blanket and stood to hang it on the clothesline. Most likely, Anders was implying none of his patients knew how to sew, but Fenris knew better. It was far more probable that Anders did not wish to ask anything of them. That was fine; Fenris would find someone to help, then.

As a matter of fact, he was pretty sure he knew someone who could.

"I forgot," Fenris said suddenly, swiping his gauntlets and pulling them on quickly. "I had an errand to run."

"Like what?" Anders asked curiously, watching as Fenris made a beeline for the door.

"Something for . . . for Hawke," he settled on, hoping he could convince the rogue to cover for him.

"But the blankets - "

"I apologize - I will return soon to finish washing them."

He shut the door behind him, effectively silencing Anders' protests and hopefully not incurring his wrath later on.


End file.
